The week of truth began Monday August 14th. Today I go back to my state of denial. During the week of truth I couldn’t lie to myself. I must write down all of my flaws as I express/experience them and my short-comings as well. During my week of truth I identify what areas of my life need change.

I manage my time horribly. I watch too much television. I don’t read enough anymore. I don’t write enough. I don’t ’sit’ enough. I spend too much time inside my head. I don’t stretch my body enough anymore. I urinate too frequently, and it’s only when I’m writing so that I have a reason to get up. I don’t call my friends back but I really want to; I always avoid calling the ones who challenge me because I know they’ll ask me what I’ve been up to and I’ll say ‘O just wasting away in front of the television.’ Actually, I’m hardly home so the TV. thing can’t be too accurate. And I do a lot of stuff but I still watch TV which always makes me feel guilty like when I masturbate for more than an hour. I really could be doing something better. But masturbating makes you live longer, watching TV doesn’t. Anyway, they challenge me and hold me to high standards and I want to be a loser so I avoid them–but I really need to reach out. I’m not dancing enough salsa. I’m not dancing enough. I don’t return my library books on time–ever. I say that I will do certain things around the house (usually cleaning stuff) and I don’t do it. Not eating enough living food. Not having enough sex. Not getting enough head anymore. Not moisturizing my scalp enough and when I don’t my scalp gets all itchy and flaky. Um, yea. I’ll have to take another week of truth in about 4 weeks once the rhythm of school kicks in. So none of these should be on my list. They should all be new things because these will be conquered! But then again, I’ve said that before.

Err, except for the masturbation part–ya’ll know dat aint even right.

I woke up to the sound of the Chattahoochee River. It was the last thing I heard the night before. I can’t remember why I left my home in Atlanta but I remembered the smell off the cold morning air. I remember the river and how the cool breeze blew through the back door into my room. It pervaded the bedroom and dampened the sheets. It was too late for a continental breakfast, but there was still hot apple cider. There is always hot apple cider in these mountainous towns. I slept with my head pointing towards the south, my feet resting on the head board. My heart towards the bottom of the mountain, past that long valley called Atlanta, south of there to my old neighborhood. I thought to myself, “What was it like one-hundred-fifty years ago. Was my old house still standing here? Was it a plantation? Did people die? Did people suffer here on this land? Is the soil underneath my foundation laden with the remains of some unnamed, unclaimed slave?” Then I thought of my room and my bed. I thought I had seen an apparition once: a baby in a basket with the mother looking down on her newborn. I saw her black hands reach in to pull her out. Then I saw the husbands face when he had seen his child. The husband was black like tar, his skin as eclipsed as the moon. The woman tried to look at her husband, but she could not. Her eyes were to the ground. She was ashamed of her White baby. And then the eyes of the man glazed over. And in it was the fire of the rage that would consume him for the rest of his life.

The Blue Ridge Mountains heal. Those winding roads that lead to North Carolina are medicine for the sick. All I knew to do was drive on. With each bend in the road, each curve, each turn I rounded, my spirits soared upon the cliffs and descended into the valleys. I understood then why the Native Americans loved that land. I understood then why they loved that land. And I wondered if I were driving along that old Trail of Tears. I wondered if the tears were because of their oppression or because they were made to leave this mystic soil. I wondered if those tears had not seeped into the earth and into the roots and the fruit of the trees of those forests. I wondered if that Nanna dual Tsuny were underneath my rubber tires, and if the tormented voices could be heard underneath the asphalt.

How was it that I was riding in the clouds, yet the ground was beneath my feet, I cannot tell you. All I knew was that the wind was like a symphony and the rain played percussion, the birds chirped rhythmlessly to the clapping of thunder, the lightning conducting with rhapsodic strikes. To see a storm in the sky is one thing. To be in the midst of it, is another. I was so close to the bottom of heaven in those clouds, that I could have sworn I saw the formation of the water. I saw the sound of thunder form. I saw the air expand, and watched the timbre send out its message. I wondered if the bottom of God’s foot had ever grazed this great mountain.

I got out of my car for fear that my heart would leap out of my chest and run into the wilderness without me. Here, age does not matter. The dirt is older than most things on earth. The clouds were passing and the sun began to peek out from the darkened sky. Looking out from where I stood, I could see the whole world. I saw Blood Mountain, where the spirits of the Nunnehi roam so freely. I saw streams of red water. I saw oceans of blood trickle down its sides, and out of that earth grew Red Azalea. They sing me songs of fragile passion and war. They tell me that it was probably over a woman. One way or another, most wars are because of a woman. And rightly so: women—like diamonds, can cause unspeakable horrors. Always, I am afraid to close my eyes, to even blink. I am afraid that when I do God will show her face and all of life’s mysteries to me, and because of my humanness I will miss the point of living. Sometimes I do not sleep at night. During a full moon or when it’s raining, I stare out into the dark sky and wait to see my lucky star zip through the air and coruscate the darkness always in my skies.

The smell of my hair mixed with the trees’ fragrance. If I closed my eyes, it would have seemed as though my shower head was placed upon a branch of the Oak tree standing over me. At moments like these I realize how very malleable the human soul is. I could never descend that mountain. As a child, I had always been a solipsist. On that mountain I learned the truth. I am only one spec of this whole universe. Up there, you get to see the world from a different view.

God is usually attributed with such virtues as righteousness, faithfulfulness, justice, and truth; but standing there in the midst of all that change, in the midst of those colors and all their shades, the revelation suddenly hit me that God is wit. Then she did something strange. She made Autumn the beginning of life–not the end. It is the full circle; the giving away in order to receive. Now we have to plant our seeds in the middle of all this death. Animals storing up their fat for the coming season. It’s like God couldn’t decide what to do with the season Autumn, so she threw all four together.

I walked further into the woods. I had the sense that whatever I was looking for would be hidden somewhere between the trees. Trying not to get lost, I made a path while trekking through the dead leaves. It proved useless. The foliage was everywhere, and all around me looked the same. I could not tell whether the road that brought me up here was to the left of me or to the right. No matter, I always found my way through. There is so much contradiction this time of year. The sun on my face warmed only as much as the breath of a lover upon your nose. Its light looked like it was warm, but the air chilled the warmth with its indifference. The smell of the river rang loud in my nostrils, the trees sang songs to the wind. My steps, deliberate and easy were out of sync with the world. They paced onward, carelessly, worrying only about their destination; it did not matter what mind, heart or soul felt, feet only knew to move ahead rapidly, lest any other man should beat them to it. Feet were confused. Feet were capitalists, city-going, detached citizens of a woman who had no control over any part of her world.

So I slowed down. What sense did it make to leave the city when I brought the city along underneath my shoes. And then the thought struck me, “What are we all rushing for anyway?” To death. That fear gripped me again. It’s funny how no one ever really thinks the world existed before they were born. It’s funny how histories’ heroes and legends seem like fiction because we weren’t around. It’s funny how my heart races when I begin to really ponder my fate; and how I wished that I never had been born, so that I would never have to die.

There was a boulder to my right. I sat on it and thought about how many ants I had just squished beneath my jeans. I laughed and looked about me. I wondered why so many people were made to live to die. But here, none of this mattered. All that mattered was the air, the sun, the sky, the trees. The river. The only significance was that my ancestors were all around me, in everything that I touched. Warning me, calling me, beckoning me to the other side. Sometimes through love, passion, envy, hate, fury, lust, or obsession, all things that cannot be expressed to anyone but your own heart–where life and all it entails exists, but we the living cannot see it.

A squirrel ran down the tree a few feet away from me. It stood, paws at the top of his chest, eyes questioning, watching to see if I were a threat. I slowly put my hand out to It. It stepped back. When I moved closer, it ran back up the tree. Not like the squirrels in New York City. They fight birds for crumbs of food. Humans are their teachers.

The sun moved farther away and the yellow leaves were now golden, the red became auburn, and the brown was tinged with copper. Birds chirped freely, ignoring my prescence, understanding that I was trying to be like them. Touching the damp earth, I could feel the life inside it: crawling, slithering, hopping, creeping for survival. I became embarrassed. Thinking of the many times when I walked through this [wilderness] with my head held high, as if this place was all my doing. I am the lower species. They teach me.

Finding my way back to the truck was not as difficult as I thought it would be. It was time for me to go. Whatever was meant for me to see was seen. Whatever was meant for me to learn was learned. The acorns on the hood of my car reminded me of a dream long ago when I was a human being in Africa. The sun there was not like the sun here. People didn’t scour into their homes for air conditioning or bask on roof tops with spf45. People there invited the sun and all its mysteries. Worshiped the sun for its power, relished its feel against the many shades of brown and black, for burning black hair to brown, blonde, bronze, or even red. The sun was God, or it was her light, at its dimmest.

I took them with me. I always take something away from nature to put up on my mantle, but I never manage to preserve the images that I see. It wasn’t really a piece of that land anymore. It became detached, but I took it anyway—hoping that I’d remember what I knew to be true that day. The truck was cold and out of place here, ready to head south to civilization where we humans run governments like companies do sweatshops.

There was hot apple cider waiting for me at the bed & breakfast. My bed was made and a pitcher of ice cold water stood on the nightstand next to it. There was fresh coffee in the kitchenette, fresh towels folded in the bathroom, a bathrobe laying on the mattress, a pair of slippers at the foot of the bed. But I didn’t want any of those things. I just wanted to lay down on the bed with the tv off. I wanted the river to tell me all its secrets, the rocks acting as its interpreter. I wanted to run into Mexico and yell at the top of my lungs, to remind men who they were. I wanted to scream to the nations, to my sons and daughters the truth of this country and this land. I wanted to be free. So I set myself free, and basked in the ugly and beautiful history of my American past. Laying on my back, I counted the spots on the ceiling. Upsidedown in a bed that held countless lovers and mothers with their children, I pointed my head toward the South. I pointed my heart toward the South.

How could I remember the first time I said or heard the words? I can’t remember the first time I felt it, only the first dance and the first kiss. It was adoration that led me to the night on the sand where the earth moved underneath a full moon. When I say I love you it means that I love you. Outside the borders of the house we inhabit the world keeps moving at lightening speed. Occasionally, it slows down enough for folks to read the signs closely, occasionally they realize that coincidence is divine synchronicity and finally, for the ones who are clever enough to learn, they know exactly what to do when they meet with chance. When I say I love you it is a state of being, not a notion and not a feeling, it is a belief. When there is no evidence of my being in the state of love, I choose love because I have to. You are to life what agony is to inspiration. The lines on my face now mimic yours because this state correlates with the universe as your spirit revolves around it. When I say I love you it is for real. They aren’t words that are reciprocated because culture dictates the protocol. If I’m absent from the space I will be my own proxy and manage, somehow, to love you anyway. I will choose love because there is no other place for me to be but here and now. When I say I love you it is not dependent upon immediate circumstance. It does not mean that I love you when things are fine. When I say that I love you it means I’ll love you when you’re down & out.

Saturday night plans change quickly when they are not concrete. Dancing, movies, live music, staying in trying to convince myself to write, starting weekly column at 12midnight because they’re due Sunday at 3p.m. even though I’ve had all week. I am my sister’s fallback company for concerts because I rock (oh, wait a minute, I think I’m her fall back because I’m a loser). We were going to a venue called Masquerade in Atlanta. It’s a decent place but the acts are usually a little too heavy for my taste. There were a few bands playing Saturday night (8/12) who are pretty good though, one of them,The Films. I usually drive to this venue and even though I’ve lived in this city for six years I still got lost–it was the bus driver’s fault he made us get off at the wrong stop. But later in the night I realized were lost and only two blocks away. Instead, we went to a 24hr-diner on Ponce de Leon Avenue, the Majestic. It’s a dive but they have great french fries. My sister was pretty pissed because we had missed so much of the show; but we decided it would be better to just wait for the next time they were in town. “I look too good today to go home,” she said. I had soup and fries. The soup was too concentrated and they put frozen peas in it. My sister had a cheeseburger deluxe. It was pretty good. We were the only two in the restaurant, which is unusual on a Saturday night. But it was early still. After a late night dinner, we walked over to the bus stop where there was a man with three large, over-stuffed garbage bags. He walked up real fast–the crackhead walk–and dumped them in front of the benches underneath the covering. He disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a third bag. After he moved them out of the way so I could sit down, he offered the both of us two small cylinder-shaped bottles with pink liquid in it. We both politely declined. The guy was starting to make us a little nervous. He was acting like a crazy person pacing back and forth and periodically glancing in our direction with his beady eyes.

About forty minutes later the bus arrives. We walk in before him and sit in the front. There is one young woman on the #2, she has on headphones and is bopping her head. His bags smelled like shit. The bus driver smiled at us and said to the man with the bags:

“You again, O hell naw.”
The bagman muttered something under his breath and the bus driver turned around to me to ask, “Honey (or baby) you alright?” I nod and smile a little. He smiled back, a huge smiled that showed his brand-spanking new porcelain veneers. They looked extra white because of his dark brown skin.
“You ain’t got no guns in there do you?” he asked the bagman.
“Yea, I got guns in here, bombs too.”
On Ponce you never know what is or is not a joke and I could tell he was waiting for a serious answer. He looked in the rearview mirror at the bags and turned his head around. “For real, what’s in dem bags?”
“Niggaz in Lebanon bombin’ shit up, fuck, so why can’t I–”
“Yea but this nigga don’t wanna get blown up by a nigga, I’m just sayin’.”
“Niggaz carryin’ guns and shit.” I looked at my sister– both of us holding in our laughter.
A few stops later, another man got on the bus with several grocery bags. He had just left Kroger and carried three or four boxes of cereal. The bus driver said, “Damn! Fruit Loops. Must be for the kids?”
“Naw, they for me,” said the grocery man.
“Yea? Oh, them shits is good.” I gave her my silent laugh.
“O damn,” said the grocery man and stood up as though he had forgotten something. He sifted through his bags, “Oh, I thought I forgot to get milk,” sigh of relief.
Bus driver, “I remember back in da day when we used to use water,” he laughed.
Again, I turned to my sister both of us with huge knowing smiles.

By now the front of the bus was beginning to smell like whatever was in the bag. The bagman said something in agreement to the “water and cereal” comment and then grocery man cut in, “You new to this route?”
“Naw,” said the driver. “I been on this route two years. I used to be on Monroe (or Moreland, I can’t remember). Saw some fucked up shit there too. Both these routes funny as hell. But I’m from New York. I grew up in New York so I done seen shit since I was this high (hand at his knee). I seen it all.”
The bagman’s stop was next and he gathered them all together before getting off the bus. He had to make a trip for each bag because they were so big. “I know about water and cereal. But I can guarantee if you sittin’ up there eatin’ water with your cereal it ain’t cuz you too lazy to walk to the store.”
“I don’t about that. I be lazy as hell sometimes,” replied the bus driver glancing back at us.
We all looked at each other saying with our eyes ‘it’s about time he got off this bus.’
The second the door closed, grocery man said, “Damn that shit stank.”
“I don’t know what the hell is in dem bags, but whatever it was, it’s dead now.”
“It was towels and clothes. I saw it. He probly doin’ laundry.”
“He ain’t doin’ no laundry. He’s been on this bus all day. I seen him all day going back and forth with dem bags. I guarentee you even if they was clothes in dem bags, he ain’t gon wash dat shit. He’d probly wear it just like it is.”

We got to North Avenue station not long thereafter. I said to the bus driver as I was walking out, “Hey we’re from New York too.” I can tell a New Yorker from anywhere. I can tell by the way they walk, sit and mostly by their “swag.” On the southbound train in the car my sister and I sat in, there were about five young men that were all from New York. I could tell first by the way they wore their caps. Anyone can imitate the style but it only fits right on a New Yorker. Three of them had fitted baseball caps. The one closest to me wore an all black cap with R on the front. The beak was straight (very New York) and it was a half size too big (also very New York). It was pulled down so low, I could barely see his eyes. He had very smooth skin the color of black coffee. He was no older than seventeen but he was hot. His posture was very New York too. He had on Timbs and stood up at Five Points. He was carrying a black backpack with writing on it. I couldn’t see what was written in white marker on the straps until he stood up: “Bronx Bronx Bronx Hustle…”

Nothing like a New Yorker.

…It opens up and for a moment I am outside the jurisdiction so that no woman or man can lay claim because you belong to me. The loose ends you tried to tie, with the fingers on your hands that are not proportionate to the rest of you, are still waiting. Those subtleties you tried repeatedly to evoke make transparent your real objective–and I am all ears, nose & throat. You’ve got my attention so do something with it. Sexual ADD is not conducive here either. My personality makes that clear. But just because you know it does not mean that you know me. You must look to know and not ask but listen. There is no mystery but the one you create in your mind. Each time too, I have noticed how the hairs on the back of my neck stand, as your presence, ghostlike, invades my space. Your name floated around the box as it does when I least expect it. The billboards lie too and so do the posts at Northside Drive & Marietta streets. Entonces, hay una calma que no puedo describir. In it are the answers to the questions I don’t ask; in it are the answers that I don’t care to hear. I do not believe that fortuity is what made our collision so beautifully passionate. Immediacy failed to remind my body that my heart was in the hand you once held. In my palm a mosaic of passions and lust. At the nape an imprint of your lips. On the inner thigh your fingerprints. On my lips the taste of your tongue. On my belly a stream of lust you left behind, a stream for me to drink. It’s all dried up now…but I’m still thirsty.

I am young, but I used to be younger. When I was younger I thought that (the rapper) Method Man and I had a chance at a life together. I was beyond what most would call a “tomboy;” I was a young man with a pair of tits and no penis. In his video “All I Need” Method Man wore half his hair braided while the other half was sticking out in a messy afro. I wore my hair like that for months. My mother hated the way I dressed. My aunts and cousins assured her that my “tomboy” phase would eventually fade, but after several years, when it didn’t, she finally snapped. I was in the sixth grade and we had had innumerable fights about my attire. I’d purposefully buy shirts that were too big and wear my father’s jeans. One day she forbid me to wear my “tomboy” clothing. She said she had enough and I knew that I would suffer the consequences if I disobeyed her. Fortunately, after begging her not to throw out all my favorite clothes, she allowed me to keep them under the agreement that I wouldn’t wear it to school. I couldn’t hold up my end of the bargain so one day I snuck a pair of my favorite jeans (my dad’s) into my backpack along with a Tommy Hilfiger knock-off I purchased on 152nd & Broadway. My building faced the back of the school where all of the classes lined up before going in. Because I didn’t want to be seen in my “whack” clothes, I went through the front of the school on the other side of the street, snuck into the first floor bathroom and changed into my ‘real’ outfit. Everything went smoothly. My friend Patience lived on the 7th floor of my housing complex (she still lives there) and my plan was to stop by her place and change before going back home to the 21st floor where I lived. My mom stopped picking me up from school when I was in the third or fourth grade. There was only a small street to cross to get to my building where she’d wait for me in the lobby. By the fifth grade I was riding to the top of the building alone. So I knew I’d be safe.

When school was over we all rushed out into the yard laughing. I, finally becoming one of the “fly girls” after years of being the nerd with glasses and a big nose, was one of the first kids in my crew to get outside the doors. It was a cool, sunny afternoon in early spring. Some of the kids wore jackets, I, of course, was too cool for that. As I descended the stairs, I saw in the distance a figure that was similar to my mother’s. For a split second I disregarded my notion as paranoia, but by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, I realized that it was, in fact, my mother. Moving outside of my body, I watched as the smirk of satisfaction on my face changed to that of utter guilt and knowing consequence. The sternness in my mother’s face (an expression that each of her three daughters have inherited) was unmistakable. It was over and I knew it. I have always been able to wiggle myself out of situations with my creative lying and elaborate plots. It worked too with my mother. Because she knew me so well, I was forced over the years to develop a very active imagination. But there was no out, I was caught with my pants on. I can’t recall walking toward her, but I remember the distance between us lessening, and my heart skipping a few beats. I don’t know what she said, but I remember her tone. She walked me back into the school straight to the bathroom and ordered me to change before going home. I didn’t know which was more humiliating: being caught in my lie or having my friends see me in the other outfit. I know now that they probably didn’t see me at all and if they did, they probably didn’t even notice.

Later that night my mother went into our bedroom and took all of my clothes. She put it into a huge garbage bag and I screamed, pleaded and begged her not to get rid of it. After an impassioned tirade in which I attempted to convince her of the necessity of my wardrobe had failed, I was resigned and the seed of teenage rebellion was planted. “What am I supposed to wear now?” I yelled. I felt like she had taken away my identity and thrown it in the trash. As I sat in my bedroom on the bottom bunk counting the clumps of gum I had stuck to the wall, I looked around to try to find those things that had identified me. There wasn’t a way for me to articulate how detrimental her move had been, how my style of dress was self expression/identification and her heaping it all into plastic garbage bags was like stifling that expression. Of course, the notion hadn’t yet entered my young mind that nothing in the phenomenal world was sufficient enough for me to truly express myself with and that the tangibility of a thing didn’t necessarily make it valid. What I needed to do was hurt her in the same way she had hurt me. There are very few instances in which I can remember maliciously hurting my mother (although during my teenage years I did it constantly). I had won several trophies, ribbons and certificates for the basketball teams/leagues I participated in, as well as academic awards and cheerleading ribbons for the after-school program I was a part of. I knew they had made her proud as they sat displayed in my room atop the dresser. I gathered them all, including the t-shirts I had from the programs and the teams, etc. I put it in a plastic bag and walked down the hall to the incinerator. I was letting go of a part of me–a part that I thought had nothing to do with my own shaping. As I walked out the door, she asked me what I was doing with all my stuff, I told her I was going to throw it all away. It was the end of something and the beginning of another thing–my teenage years, in which I wreaked havoc in my home. Naturally, the plain-clothes stint didn’t last very long. The whole fiasco marked the beginning of my first revolt.

The Truth: The only reason why I was posting so much, writing so much, was because I didn’t have any internet access on my laptop or any radio or a television. We’re still living outta boxes. We= me and my old wrinkly mate. He’s not really wrinkly but he’s getting a lot more salt than pepper nowadays. And what’s even stranger is that now I have like 10 gray hairs. I’ll just call them silver; it sounds cooler. All of them are near my temple–are they sympathy grays? My mother told me that her side of the family grays early. But I’m 23. That’s pre-pubescent for grays. Falling in love is my favorite thing to do. I do girly things when I’m alone like empty out my closet and try on different outfits. Sometimes, I end up doing it for hours and hours. Sometimes I don’t brush my teeth. I don’t believe that fundamentally ALL people are good. I have a fetish for Puerto Ricans. I’ve only read about 70% of the books I own. I almost never remember authors and I forget whole plots of books until I’m halfway through reading them for the second time. Avid readers who remember scenes from books and movies annoy the hell outta me. I dislike the African-American section of the library. I feel like non African-American people won’t generally go down that isle and they’ll miss great literature and that it marginalizes the author’s work (generally). I dislike the term African-American. I don’t like that Black people in America are called that. Not all Black people living in America are African-Americans. There are Black folks from all over the world. I think that America is just scared of the word Black. I’m such a chicken when it comes to roller coasters. I have a bit of a Lolita complex. Many people say to me “you’re wild” but I think they’re wild for not doing and saying exactly what they feel no matter what response they might elicit. Sometimes I feel like a phony when I call myself a writer–it ain’t like I’m getting paid for it (not steadily anyways). There are only three people who know me well enough to decipher when I’m “telling stories.” I know that I am an “acquired taste,” but I don’t always get what people see in me. I seriously get angry when I don’t have any new email to read. I say “inappropriate” things to shock my conservative Christian mother. I don’t filter very well or very much. One of my good friends, who happens to be related to me, is as addicted to myspace as Bobby and Whitney are to crack.

The Whole Truth: sometimes people can be selfish. I am one of those people. I mope and whine when I don’t get my way–in the same way that small children do. I avoid confrontation just to spare my own feelings–usually awkward ones–even if it’s beneficial and sometimes necessary for the other person. I lie to my partner and say “yeah” when he asks me questions sometimes so he can shut up while I drive his car and I can hear the music, even if I don’t agree or even pay attention to what he said. Sometimes, not all the time, I make him get off of me as soon as I orgasm and push him to the other side of the bed–and tell him to leave me the hell alone (but I’m not mean about it). During winter–I do this one a lot. I have unusually cold hands and feet and when he’s sleeping or not paying attention I slip my hands under his shirt. He gets so mad, I know he wants to throw me across the room, but he can’t–I just do it to get a good laugh. I love sex on Sunday mornings–followed by late breakfast or brunch on a sunny afternoon. I can’t imagine not falling in love or having the ability to. Heartbreak is so familiar a place that I seek it out intentionally sometimes. I’m not too big but I can eat more in one sitting than most people I know male or female, regardless of weight or height. I might not be bisexual after all–I might just be greedy (hahaha). Sometimes I enjoy masturbation more than I do sex. I think that those extreme feminists that call masturbation “self-love” are idiots. I would classify myself as SBDM–but I’m not quite as active or extreme as most. I’m good at domination, but I would almost never turn down a chance to be submissive. My face can be very expressive. I know that and the less expressive I am, the more I am trying not to say. I’ve had elevated testosterone levels for awhile (not too high to cause serious problems) but I can’t do anything about because I don’t have health insurance anymore. I taught myself how to play guitar. I’m not a very good teacher. I’ve only faked orgasm twice in the four-year relationship I’ve been in: once was because I really wanted to go to sleep, the other was because I hate spending unnecessary time in the shower. I’ve never faked crying before. I cry easily. When I am overwhelmed with sadness, despair, love, passion, desire, anger, or joy I feel like I can’t breathe.

Nothing But the Truth: I write songs about people sometimes. I write poems about people all the time. My poems are usually pretty lame. Sometimes when I see beautiful brown babies on the subway or walking down the street with their tiny little feet, my uterus jumps around and I get all warm and fuzzy. When their parents look away, I sometimes make mean scary faces so that they can cry (not to the ones that give me fuzzy feelings). I don’t really want children. I don’t want them because I know that I am too selfish and can’t imagine being responsible for a whole other human being. I am not as strong as people think I am. I can make my peck muscles move like male weight lifters do. I did bad things to myself that I sometimes regret now. I’ve had electric-shock therapy before–I used to make the doctor laugh every time by saying something smug or totally perverted before he put me down; I did it because we both knew I would have no recollection of what I said when I woke up. I’m afraid at night when there’s a thunderstorm and I’m home alone. I see and hear things that other people don’t. I love love. There are only a few people that I’ve “made love” with. My masturbation fantasies often include two men, a beautiful brown-skinned woman watching, and a waiting line. I get broken-hearted when I’m told that I am insensitive by the people I care about most. I cry sometimes because I think that maybe I am–I cry because they’re so wrong and I NEVER mean to hurt them. The best man in my life is my father, Daniel. I don’t use my hands when I masturbate (generally). I go for days and days (even in the sweltering summer heat) without showering sometimes. My “passion” sexual or otherwise, comes from the same place where my ideas come from, from the same place where creativity and love come from, from the same place that my most genuine self reside. I love calling people douche bags. I don’t do anything special to make my skin soft. When I’m not centered, I obsess about my weight. Sometimes, if I’m really horny and I have to take care of it myself, I masturbate for 3-4 hours straight while watching porn. And I always feel guilty afterwards because I could’ve been writing or cleaning the house or something. When I was small (I remember this clearly) I used to eat out of the garbage. When no one is looking I still eat out of the garbage. At my house, and certain friends houses, and sometimes at the places where I work depending on how fresh the food is. Sometimes I feel like I’m still not better yet and could go back any minute and actually end up insane. Horseback riding is a spiritual experience for me. I’ve only done it a few times. I absolutely love rock and roll. Sometimes I think that the goodness of music will kill me–that I’ll actually die. Sometimes I feel as though the most perfect music in the world is salsa. Other times the only music that can talk to my mood is hip/hop; sometimes it’s soul. I am euphoric some days–for the whole day. I think it is like a state of perfection when I have those days. Sometimes they’re just moments. I feel like those moments make life worth living. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m strong enough to live in this life. Sometimes I feel like I can’t make a difference no matter what I do. I can be really disgusting and I say gross things, I wipe bugars on my partner, who says I’m the nastiest person he knows male or female. The word bugar makes me laugh when I say it out loud. I have a wry sense of humor and people don’t normally think I have a sense of humor at all. Love tells me everything I need to know. Underneath my cool exterior, there’s just a little gir–I’m fuckin with you–I really am that goddamn cool.

That doesn’t mean that I’m a liar.