You know what I’ve been doing lately? Daily journaling. Not free writing or writing practice, but stopping at the end of every day to catalog my feelings and experiences. I broke the habit for awhile because I was tired of living in my head. Allowing space for my thoughts without judgment helps me be more present. In her TedTalk, “Wounded People Tell Better Stories,” Justine Musk said: “Writing is my brain’s way of organizing information.” Expressing raw thoughts for myself, not for Internet consumption, is refreshing.
I’ve been jones-ing for the good old days of personal blogging because I’m annoyed with Twitter every damn day. I like to think I’m not a complainer (adapt or move on–don’t whine), but I haven’t found a replacement medium to commune with people I enjoy without mind-numbing analyses of shit I don’t give a fuck about.
Crying like a beauty brand stood you up for prom, for instance.
I miss the old days of the Internet before everything was a thing.
I’m re-visiting Prince’s catalog (Young SBG found Prince weird and creepy). I’ve given concentrated listens to Prince, Purple Rain, 1999, and Sign ‘O’ the Times. “Let’s Get Crazy” is one of the best pieces of musicianship I’ve ever heard.
My last three “boyfriends” lasted 7 months, six months, and four months. I’ll keep a (good) FWB for 2+ years. Do with that information what you will.
My homegirl posted an article on Instagram called “A Home is Meant to be Lived In, Not Looked At.” A
Home Life is Meant to be Lived In, Not Looked At might be my current thesis.
I dreamed I pulled a Gabrielle Union-style cougar move and bagged Keith Powers. Note to self: stay off Instagram after 10:00 PM.
Since Jay-Z removed his music from Spotify, my treasured “When Young Hov was Young” playlist is down to 23 songs from 56. Thank God I kept my original digital copies in my Google Play account.
I spent last Saturday and Sunday in Columbus visiting one of my besties to help celebrate her two-year-old daughter’s birthday. I lasted maybe an hour in the party before sneaking to my car for a whiskey break. As I sat in the car, sipping my Tullamore Dew and ginger ale, I basked in becoming exactly who I wanted to be when I grew up. (Basically, Brianna from Grace and Frankie with less disposable income.)
Greatness from my inbox: “And thus, the ‘y’ in y(our) side chick became silent.” (Don’t ask. Bask in its dopeness.)
Summertime goal: do something wildly inappropriate to Mack Wilds’s AfterHours album.