I need a face palm icon.
If one more person upon connecting a name with my Blackness asks if I write "urban" fiction someone is getting shanked.
Also being surprised that I don't write "urban" fiction is fine, but don't tell me how very shocked you are.
Really.
This is getting to be right up there with "but you don't sound Black"
Really.
This brought to you by an online writers group I was checking out one of the senior members followed my links to my bibliography page thing and yeah.
Fuck to the fucking that.
Also being Black does not exclude you from the don't put your dirty fucking fingers in my hair.
That bullshit may get you punched.
When I say no there is not a piece in my bun, I fucking mean it only people I give permission to can put fingers in my hair.
To quote a little old man on the bus today, "where the fuck is your home training?"
In less I am about to stab a bitch news.
Said hair feels delightfully fluffy and fabulous. Even though it got pretty well drenched on the way to work.
I also have 3 actual curls. Just like when I was a wee kid/baby and it cracks me up. My little brother had the same 3 devil curls as a wee kid, all three face different directions than the surrounding hair no matter what. He's a biggun now and he has a head full of gorgeous tawny curls that are no more because he's a fucking marine.
I wish I still had the pics of he and I when he had his purple mohawk and gauged ears.
Uh.
I desperately need a new big bag/purse that is water resistant. My current tote is roomy enough but soaks up water and I have a very damp and blurred notepad and wavy edged book to show for it. Also a large crochet project that is still damp. I am not getting another backpack lest I start collecting patches like a rabid teenager again. I am however highly tempted.
I've been obsessed with crocheting accessories lately. Namely small clutch purses, cuff bracelets. I really suck at making fingerless glove gauntlet things and Uniballed laughed at the left one from the pair I made him because I a.)neglected to write down the original pattern I made and b.) had issues putting together the left one vs the right one. He loves them anyway.
And a little bit from the essay I'm working on under the cut. It is about the time I almost ran away to Quebec to become a prostitute. Hopefully it'll be up and available in a couple of weeks. I have one almost ready to go about why I will never EVER do cocaine ever again. Unless I'm planning a murder spree where it ends up that I go out in a blaze of glory.
She was well put together and wearing a beautiful dark gray tailored suit, killer shoes. She didn’t really look like a madam or at least I didn't think she did, she looked like a business lady in town to do business lady things. In my head she was in town to oversee some kind of hostile takeover of awesomeness and she had seen me and had to have me.
Matter of fact I was trying very hard to be nonchalant sexy sitting there with my scotch and cigar, wearing heels that hurt my feet but looked damn good. I smiled at her when she introduced herself, I cannot for the life of me remember her name but I do remember that she was wearing all black and had this lush dark brown hair that looked to be barely contained in a big silver clip.
She shook my hand and sat with me. I don’t really remember much of our small talk because I was fantasizing about her leaning over to whisper to me that she wanted to take me up to her room. That didn’t happen. We did talk a great deal about art and music, then our talk moved to books. She had the most wonderful little Frenchy roll to her speech that I couldn’t place. I recall feeling like a real grown up type lady as we talked. The sort who could sit with another grown up type lady and discuss these things in a dimly lit bar in an intimate little leather booth.
Also holy mother fucking shit I am tired.
Last week getting up an hour early to catch an hour earlier bus so I could get to work on time really fucking FUCKED with me.
I slept about 4 hours.
Fuck this shit.
Also being surprised that I don't write "urban" fiction is fine, but don't tell me how very shocked you are.
Really.
This is getting to be right up there with "but you don't sound Black"
Really.
This brought to you by an online writers group I was checking out one of the senior members followed my links to my bibliography page thing and yeah.
Fuck to the fucking that.
Also being Black does not exclude you from the don't put your dirty fucking fingers in my hair.
That bullshit may get you punched.
When I say no there is not a piece in my bun, I fucking mean it only people I give permission to can put fingers in my hair.
To quote a little old man on the bus today, "where the fuck is your home training?"
In less I am about to stab a bitch news.
Said hair feels delightfully fluffy and fabulous. Even though it got pretty well drenched on the way to work.
I also have 3 actual curls. Just like when I was a wee kid/baby and it cracks me up. My little brother had the same 3 devil curls as a wee kid, all three face different directions than the surrounding hair no matter what. He's a biggun now and he has a head full of gorgeous tawny curls that are no more because he's a fucking marine.
I wish I still had the pics of he and I when he had his purple mohawk and gauged ears.
Uh.
I desperately need a new big bag/purse that is water resistant. My current tote is roomy enough but soaks up water and I have a very damp and blurred notepad and wavy edged book to show for it. Also a large crochet project that is still damp. I am not getting another backpack lest I start collecting patches like a rabid teenager again. I am however highly tempted.
I've been obsessed with crocheting accessories lately. Namely small clutch purses, cuff bracelets. I really suck at making fingerless glove gauntlet things and Uniballed laughed at the left one from the pair I made him because I a.)neglected to write down the original pattern I made and b.) had issues putting together the left one vs the right one. He loves them anyway.
And a little bit from the essay I'm working on under the cut. It is about the time I almost ran away to Quebec to become a prostitute. Hopefully it'll be up and available in a couple of weeks. I have one almost ready to go about why I will never EVER do cocaine ever again. Unless I'm planning a murder spree where it ends up that I go out in a blaze of glory.
She was well put together and wearing a beautiful dark gray tailored suit, killer shoes. She didn’t really look like a madam or at least I didn't think she did, she looked like a business lady in town to do business lady things. In my head she was in town to oversee some kind of hostile takeover of awesomeness and she had seen me and had to have me.
Matter of fact I was trying very hard to be nonchalant sexy sitting there with my scotch and cigar, wearing heels that hurt my feet but looked damn good. I smiled at her when she introduced herself, I cannot for the life of me remember her name but I do remember that she was wearing all black and had this lush dark brown hair that looked to be barely contained in a big silver clip.
She shook my hand and sat with me. I don’t really remember much of our small talk because I was fantasizing about her leaning over to whisper to me that she wanted to take me up to her room. That didn’t happen. We did talk a great deal about art and music, then our talk moved to books. She had the most wonderful little Frenchy roll to her speech that I couldn’t place. I recall feeling like a real grown up type lady as we talked. The sort who could sit with another grown up type lady and discuss these things in a dimly lit bar in an intimate little leather booth.
Also holy mother fucking shit I am tired.
Last week getting up an hour early to catch an hour earlier bus so I could get to work on time really fucking FUCKED with me.
I slept about 4 hours.
Fuck this shit.