People who frequent my blog know that I’m not big on explaining or defending myself in my comment section. I’ve only recently been able to articulate why: The work for me is in the writing. While it’s always subjective, it’s also always honest and always respectful of the people in my life. When the post is done, my work is done. How it’s received is up to the reader. Of course, I prefer when readers see things the way I think I’ve explained them, but I’m not here for a debate if that doesn’t happen. People are going to see and believe what they want.

I heard a Hemingway quote in class the other day: “If I have to explain what the book is about, the explainers are out of a job.” Hov said “I’ll just write it in rhyme/and let you feel me/and if you don’t like it/then fine.”

Pretty damn much.

Remember how I thought I’d grow up to be a cougar? Well, I’ve recently decided that the thought processes of men born after 1986 scare the everloving shit out of me. So much for that idea.

Honestly, the thought processes of a lot of men, regardless of age, scare the shit out of me. Hence why I’m not big on the idea of submitting to one of them any time soon.

Let me paraphrase something that was said about yesterday’s post: “I hope she’s not influencing other men and women to follow the same path.”

Somehow, seeing that made me feel like I’m doing something very right here.

I’m pretty much obsessed with that one remix to that one song by those two troubled R&B/pop singers. It makes me want to do dirty things to a boy who knows better than to ever lay a hand on me.

But talk to your kids, yo. They’d be the best beneficiaries of all this outrage. Break down the situation and let them know why following that example is not okay.

My grown ass? I don’t need that speech.

This MFA program is turning me into a writer. I’m so obsessed with stories. Even when I revisit parts of my life on this blog, it’s becoming less about catharsis and more about prose. Yesterday’s post? I felt like Bruce Leroy fighting Sho-Nuff at the end of The Last Dragon when I wrote it. I had The Glow.

I couldn’t get caught up in the conversation about it because all I thought was “Oooh! Pretty words!”

My girl Bee recently told me that I “definitely have a big ego,” but I “carry it well. It’s cocky and cute.” I’m glad that’s the case. It’s kinda what I’m going for.

I have a weekend-long date with Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man, and a five page paper in which I will apply Marxist theory to passages of the novel. I’m giddy with anticipation.

And by “giddy,” I mean, “Fuck school.”

Talk that talk. Yeah, I know I’m such a show off…

fin.

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

The words were akin to a slap. A hard one. My artistic license may override my memory at the moment, but as I look at the sentence, I feel like it slammed against my left ear and vibrated through my being like a physical slap. My immediate response now is “Nigga, who in the fuck do you think you’re talking to?!” But my immediate response then was something like quiet shock that this normally doting, laid-back, and well-mannered young man had not only responded so strongly to what I’d said, but insulted it. I may have blinked once or twice, to create space between the reactive me and the rational me. And then what? I don’t know. I have no recollection of the words that left my mouth after that. Undoubtedly some diplomatic Libra-esque effort at defusing what had out of nowhere become a hostile conversation with the least hostile person I’d ever met.

It started with an afternoon drive,  a  Rihanna song; “Do Ya Thang,” and my request that it be turned up so that I could catch the content of the song. She sang “You are who you are, and I like it that way” of a man that she loved, in spite of and possibly because of, his wandering spirit. Upon grasping the theme, I felt a tiny corner of my heart smile, remembering my own experience with that kind of love. Perhaps too whistfully for the present moment, during which I was with a different, far more settled love interest. But not so much that I wanted a rewind button. I was good where I was, but back then was fun, too.

“It’s a really dumb song,” he said.

“It’s not that bad,” I answered, nodding to the beat. “I kinda like it, actually.”

“I mean, it sounds okay, but what she’s saying is dumb.”

I should’ve left it alone. But I didn’t. And what followed would become a moment that is best described with the cliche “it was the beginning of the end.”

I did my best to explain my similar experience with the lyrics of the song. For me, it was as simple as this: I knowingly fell in love with a certain type of man, and decided to roll with who he was, flaws and all because his flaw was not a deal-breaker for me.

Apparently, this only made sense, to me.

He questioned my sense  of self-worth. “How could you be okay with that?” Which I answered with a shrug. “I knew what I was worth. I knew what I could have. But I also knew what I wanted. I liked what I had and it worked for me at the time.” Then I recounted laughs shared about the other women in my former love’s life to nail home the point: it really didn’t bother me at all. That must have been the fatal error because that’s when I got assaulted with “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I only realized two days ago, an entire three months after this took place, after “Do Ya Thang” played on my iPod, that this was the moment I pulled out. Because after that, every kind word and doting glance felt like an indictment of my former self.  While I’d left a lot of old me behind, I still carried enough of her that calling her “dumb” didn’t sit well with me.

Maybe I could’ve told him that, and allowed him to say what he needed to say to mend the situation, but it was too late. In the heat of the moment, he’d said exactly what he meant.

A month later, I was out.

It could have been exactly as I told him it was: I needed to be alone. I have no regrets. Never shed a tear over it.  The rhythm of my single girl life exists just as I imagined and I often have moments, sitting in my apartment with a glass of wine, a good movie, and some witty text banter with a potential suitor, where I’m absolutely giddy at the life I’m creating.

But, it also could have been that telling moment. That afternoon, in the car, with the Rihanna song.

“I’d really rather just enjoy shit than analyze it to death.”

I said this last night amidst the firestorm of tweets regarding the remix to that one song with those two wild child R&B/pop singers saying amazingly dirty things to each other.

It’s true. Lately, the theme of my life has been cutting analysis and keeping things simple. I’ve stopped searching for motivation, because it’s wasted effort that doesn’t serve me. I’ve stopped trying to force myself to be enthusiastic, because I’m naturally neutral and laid back. I’ve stopped reaching for all those things I’m not and instead am working on embracing everything I am. Finally, I’ve stopped concerning myself with the whys of people’s actions so that I may focus on… Well, that part is unclear. But minding my business has done wonders for my peace of mind. I plan to keep it up.

I wonder what this aversion to analyzing means for me as a writer. I entered my MFA program with a concentration in Creative Non-fiction, because I discovered that I’d been writing creative non-fiction since I began blogging, but opinion-driven social media platforms have made me loathe opinions and analysis; mine included. If you look at anything long enough, and hard enough, you can find something wrong with it. While overthinking may serve the writer, it has the opposite effect on an anxiety-prone young woman who genuinely wants to enjoy her life.

If I’m not down to examine, poke, and prod at my existence, then what exactly am I going to do with my pen?

In the words of the aforementioned R&B/pop singer who shares my government name, I guess that’s the question existing.