1. having knowledge or being aware of.

I spent way too much time “trying to figure out what I want to write” and this blog isn’t shit for it. Every idea I had is still stuck in my drafts or trashed. Nothing I wanted to say felt like an original thought. Is there anything new to express, though? Probably not. So why is my take on the same old feelings any less valid than anyone else’s? It’s not, I suppose.

Truth is, I wanted to be important. I wanted my words to resonate in some way. But who am I? I am just another noise feeding into a cacophony of expression and emotion, and often times ill-informed opinion. I’m just another fucking person who wants to be heard; who thinks they have something new to add. I have nothing new to add. I only have something me.

I feel like I’m tired of being quiet, as though someone else forced me into silence. I’m my own oppressor. I’ll have to be my own liberator. I have to stop over-analyzing my words. I have to stop looking for ways to make myself more palatable. Who the fuck cares? Who am I trying to impress?

Fat Acceptance

My thoughts on “fat acceptance” and the ways in which body positivity can still feel exclusive.

I am so fucking here for all of the body positivity and fat acceptance I’ve been seeing on my social media. I’m here for the embracing of rolls and stretch marks; the praising of big bellies, big thighs, and flabby arms. I love that people are showing love to big bodies and even more so, showing love to themselves. I love y’all and I’m proud of y’all.

That being said, I am not the acceptable kind of fat. If I lost weight, I would not be the attractive kind of thin. I am top-heavy. I have large breasts and a big belly. My hips are extremely narrow. My ass is hilariously flat. My thighs are large but my legs are skinny. I look like Michigan J. Frog. — It’s okay to laugh. I find it funny, too. I say none of this to illicit sympathy. You can send me any number of compliments and I will still believe that my body is ugly. Because, body positivity and fat acceptance still overwhelmingly exclude women with my body shape.

Continue reading “Fat Acceptance”


I’m just… fine.

I’m in this weird mental state where I can see everything falling apart around me, the ground crumbling beneath my feet, my entire world collapsing in on itself and I’m… fine. I’m good. Things are as bad as I can currently imagine them, but I’m either too numb or in some kind of shock.  I can’t muster the energy to give a fuck. I feel concern but I don’t feel the crippling worry I usually do when shit gets bad. Where I’d normally be anxious and panicked, I’m just… fine. I’m not stressed, though I know I should be. I’m aware that everything is bad and getting worse, but I’m oddly calm. I’m more scared of my lack of worry than my actual, horrible state of existence. Have I reached peak apathy or is this shit building up, a floodgate waiting to be opened? I won’t dwell on it too much because, for the moment, I’m fine.


It’ll just have to be what it is.

I’m choosing to embrace frivolity because, real life is too much for me to handle at the moment. I’ll be present, but not active. My life will be all distraction all the time until I can healthily cope with my shit and everything else. If I have to lose myself in books, or film and television, I will. I’m not here for anything but my own mental well-being. I’m about conveniently ignoring anything that will send me into a depression or an existential crisis. If that makes me selfish, so be it.


Feeling kind of “eh..”

I’ve started a lot of posts and just scrapped them because, I feel like they’re not… enough. I feel like I’m not black enough, not feminist enough, not woke, not present. I feel like the shit I want to talk about is not serious enough or not real enough. Like, there is real shit going on in the world, and I’m like… “but why nobody talking about Under The Dome, though?” I kind of don’t want to make noise if I’m not saying something substantial, but on the other hand, I’m not that fucking deep. I am deeply apathetic. Not in the sense that I don’t care, but more in the sense that I barely have enough strength to tolerate my own life; I literally cannot deal with all that bigger shit right now. So I’m sitting here like… Are my frivolous thoughts even valuable? Probably not. But, should that keep me from engaging? I don’t know. Maybe.

I feel fucking invisible, now. I’m not sure that making noise will equate to being heard, but… maybe, just fuck it.