Huit Poulets

As much as I hate conforming to social rules that I completely disagree with, I've finally settled on not getting my tattoos on my wrists, nor on the flesh between my thumb and index finger. Instead I'll get it on my lower neck. It shall be a peace symbol, 'and' symbol (&) and a heart. Peace & Love. It'll be very small, the 'and' symbol being smaller than the other two, and completely in black. I haven't yet decided whether I want the heart filled, or not.

Then once I get to the highest level of success that I wish to achieve, I'll get a big "Fuck The Man" on my forearm. And I kid.

Speaking of society, next semester of college is going to put up one hell of a fight, if I decide not to change my schedule. And though I know my academic adviser, and my academic peer adviser, and my academic success partner will probably suggest that I do, I'm not sure if I want to. For one, the three courses that I am enrolled in are absolutely, fabulously, completely amazing. The course work will be rigorous, but the topics are just to die for, if you're a lover of the penal system, Iran and West African cultures, like me. Also, I want to know what if feels like to be truly challenged in school. And not just challenged because I'm a chronic procrastinator, but challenged even when I'm giving my all.

I've never felt that, in school, before.

Raw Suede

Most people who know me, and some who don't, always comment on my mental strength. "You are so strong."

When I was younger, I spent a lot of time at my mom's foster mother's house. I had one of those play kitchens; it was in her living room. It was charred and practically unrecognizable when her house caught fire, though not much else was that ruined. I used to think that because of that, the fire was the fault of me, and my little play kitchen.

That house used to sit on West Outer Drive, but it's not there anymore. If you drive by, you'll notice a house-wide gap between two houses, close to the corner. That's where it used to be. But it was torn down by the city.

It was in that house where I was first molested by her. I was only four. Like most molesters, she told me not to tell, told me I would be punished, beaten, but not believed, and that next time would be worse. But unlike most molested, I didn't believe her. I knew that if I told my mom, she would believe me. She would rescue me. I would never have to see her again.

But I was wrong, and she was right. And I was punished and beaten for such lies. And the next time was worse. And the time after that was worse. And the time after that. Worse. I am still called a liar to this very day for telling her what happened.

My dad worked during the day, and during the day my mom cheated on my dad. So it was there that I had to go. Until I was nine. My friend Ashley was over for the summer. My brothers were 4 and 2. My mom asked if I wanted to go to her house, or stay at home alone. I knew how to cook for us, I knew how to change diapers. Staying home was the only option. Ironically, it was that day, the day that I was not molested, that child protective services was called to our house. The police came and knocked on our door, told me we were coming with them. Back then we had iron bars on our doors that could only be opened with a key. I pretended I couldn't find it as I called my neighbor and begged her to come and pretend she was our babysitter. She did, and that saved us.

But I was still beaten, because perhaps they were called because we were too loud. I tried my best to quiet my brothers. But I was nine.

When my mom's biological mother tried to stab me in a crack-induced rage when I was also four, I never told anyone. I didn't want to be called a liar again.

Ever since I was four, I've been hurt. My entire life. I've been molested, beaten, stabbed, and kicked out of the house, before the age of 13. I've been self-destructive, and suicidal, depressed and mute. But in the end, I've been strong, because I've had to be.

But through it all, I haven't been bitter. Though my mom and I are not close, I still love her and I've long forgiven her. I still visit my grandmother, and help her re-bandage the wounds on her legs, or help her find the Jewish egg bread she likes at the grocery store.

I guess being strong isn't just about survival.

Reaching Dawn

I find it disturbing that someone can have such a large capacity to intentionally hurt others. It astonishes me. It scares me.

I remember it was around 4am, Tuesday morning, December 30th, and my head was throbbing. I laid facing the couch; you draped an arm around me. India told you to stop, but you wouldn't move. I remember you kissing my neck. I remember you forcing me to turn around and face you.

I asked you why you were so upset with me, but you didn't really answer, just said that I have negative things to say to you. I reminded you that you say negative things about people all the time, but you said, "But never about you." I remember holding your face between both my hands, and looking you in the eyes. I remember exactly what I said. "You know I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. Never. But I'm sorry for whatever I said that did." You told me I didn't have to apologize. But I did again. And then I jokingly took one of them back.

Your phone had to have rang at least five times; you were late picking up your step-dad from work. But you wouldn't get up. You wouldn't let me go. You wouldn't stop kissing me.

So you can imagine my surprise when I find a message in my honesty box telling me to read your blog. You can imagine the look on my face when I did. You can imagine my hurt because you manufactured it, purposely.

My brain, and text inbox, was flooded with, "You just don't deserve this. I don't understand."

I don't understand. As much as I never want to look in your face again, as much as if you never spoke to me again it would be much too soon, I could still never do something like this to you. I could never hurt you this way. Because I once loved you. I once cared. I once considered you a friend.

But I know now that you never loved me.

Deux Adios

Supposedly I'm the liar, but some of us wouldn't know the truth if it beat our ass. Which it obviously has.

I wrote a long ass blog this morning recapping 2008. But fuck that. I don't have shit to say about it except I regret approximately 58.3% of it. Give or take.

Biggest lesson I learned: trust your instincts.

I knew from the very beginning it wasn't going to be worth my time, and I was right.

You might have everyone fooled, you might even be effectively fooling yourself, but I know what the truth is. Seek help, it works wonders. I don't give a shit what anyone says, or what you yourself say, something is deeply wrong with you. I would send a get well soon card, but I just don't give that much of a shit anymore.

That goes for two.

Peace the fuck out.

An Ode to You

They say anything worth having is worth fighting for. I'm a firm believer that anything that was ever worth having is worth fighting for, worth crying over, worth swallowing pride. So before I write this note, I'll have two large gulps of my own.

My friends make me who I am. Small in impact are the bad moments I've experienced compared to the profound ways my friends have shaped my life. Though we've only been together for a few short (and sometimes long) years, it would take me many lifetimes to retell each and every memory that we've shared. But that doesn't mean I've forgotten, because I remember. I remember them all, all with sincere fondness. Some make me laugh, others make me cry, but they all remind me how grateful I am to have ever met you.

I just read a note that shook me to the core of my soul. I imagine that if I ever lost any one of you, I would forget how to breathe. But the fact is, I have. Once close, we are now distant. And I'd be lying if I said the space between us isn't still raw in me.

Some people say I don't know how to let go. I say some people don't know when to hold on.

To Courtney,
I never gave you the public and most sincere apology you deserve. I would say I'm sorry, but those words are just too used, too adulterated. And I can't think of the words to describe my regret, so instead I'll say I love you, much more than you probably know. I miss your clothes, and I miss you, and I thank you for continuing to be apart of my life.

To everyone,
If I've ever forgotten to mention it, if I've ever made you believe otherwise, or if you've simply forgotten: I love you. Whether we talk everyday, or a few times a week, or every couple of months, my love for you is undying, unfaltering, unconditional. You are my friend, and I intend to keep it that way. You guys are like my breath, and I never want to lose you, especially not while we share the same earth. In 2009 I hope we're able to strengthen our friendships, I hope we're able to get to know one another better, I hope we'll grow to appreciate each other more, and cherish our moments together, for I pray that they are long, but no one knows just how short time can be.

I could not have been blessed with a better set of friends.

Thank you for accepting me, thank you for being there to share my laughter, to share my passion, to console me in my pain. Remember that I am always here for you, no matter the time of day, or night.

Love always,
Constance-Marie

Nectar

Nudity, mint tea, Christmas lights abstract wall art, and silence. And I just float away. Having a sense of peace and security, even if only for a moment, is amazing. That feeling, when it's true, and raw, and embedded in yourself, is amazing.

I am the creator and sustainer of my own happiness. The giver and receiver of my own peace. I do for the good of myself. I value, cherish and believe in myself more and before anything else. I put myself at the top and bottom of my list. I keep fighting, for me. I keep trying, for me. I live to be my own best friend, my own biggest fan.

I can honestly say that I've never been happier with myself and my life than I am right now. Despite the things I've been going through these past few months, despite the things I continue to endure right now, the overbearing pain, the worry, the frustration of not knowing, I am happy. And I'm happy with me.

And this is why I'm so disinterested in being in a relationship with him right now. I don't want to make the mistake of muddling the happiness that I feel within, for and because of myself, with the happiness that he's so interested in bringing me. I need the time and space to just be infatuated with myself. Hopefully he understands that.

Wealth

I suppose I missed the days to describe what I was or am thankful for, which is perfectly fine by me, because I am in no mood to go through that routine. "Oh, I'm thankful for my family, and my friends. I'm thankful for Evan, and I'm thankful for my scholarships." Honestly, it's all such bullshit. Such boring, run of the mill bullshit. I am so very thankful for acai berry smoothies, and the help I've had the past few weeks. Thank you.

I am desperately begging people not to purchase a (RED) beverage from Starbucks to support the fight against AIDS in Africa. To sell a beverage for five dollars and only donate five cents is nothing short of a deplorable, yet effective marketing scheme. Have a little common sense, people. Pass up on that mocha latte, skim milk, no froth (or whatever you kids are into these days) and use those five bucks to make a direct donation. The Global Fund, for example, will be a good place to start. Not fucking Starbucks.

Not going to New York. It would be wrong, considering it would require him to spend a lot of money on me, and though I like him, I feel like that would be taking too big of a step. Maybe Spring Break?

I sort of want to just go to sleep, and wake up when it's time for break. I'm done with this semester. I'm done. I'm done. Or at least I need to be done, before I have a nervous breakdown and plunge off the roof of East Quad. Really it's just French. Everything else is fine.

Heidi and Spencer got married. Some girls.. are just retarded. This will make for a very interesting Divorce Court episode, though.

I wish I could have the college experience everyone else is seemingly having. Like, I'm finally having a good time up here, but it's not all that. I'm not having the time of my life. I sincerely hope that these next four years will not be the best of my life. I honestly think I'm too old-spirited for this. I don't like to party. I wish I could find a good book club. I have the most fun when we're just hanging out, especially when that involves 90s music and Taboo, and Thursdays are my favorite day because they involve Black Student Union, which rocks my whole world. I suppose the college experience is different for everyone. I plan on starting my own club next year, which will be centered around minority activism. Good luck with me finding members.

ROFL at NBER for announcing we're in a recession, and have been in one since this month last year. Thank you, geniuses, for that shocking announcement, but I believe the black community called this one a long time ago.

Barack, honey. I love you. BUT WHY THE FUCK DID YOU PICK HILLARY RODHAM CLINTON?! God.

I have a nice life, I wish I wasn't so stressed and worried so I can enjoy it. Fuck school, man, and American Protestant economic ethics that causes me to feel the need to be wealthy.