Sometimes, I envision bringing my old fashioned parents out into the world. I imagine this is how it would go:
Yes! Women can vote and black people can sit at the FRONT of the bus and this is a “telephone,” it makes CALLS. And see, we don’t wear loin cloths in the future and we don’t call our 24 year old daughters 24/7 asking her where she has been when she’s literally sitting around watching TV and YouTube videos and eating Jack in the Box. Yeah. Drugs.
2012 was by far one of the shittiest years of my life.
I’ll spare all you good people the details, but I always feel it necessary to summarize my year on Tumblr when the dawn of the New Year approaches.
1) I am fully capable of not having feelings for someone I sleep with.
2) I am fully capable of getting over people who fuck me over sans alcohol, weed, cigarettes, or any other tools of self-detriment.
3) Don’t date your best friends. Don’t hook up with them. Don’t kiss them. Don’t hold their mother fucking hands. Just keep it the way it is…unless you want to learn that they are mean, self-centered, power-hungry, ignorant, and other things that are better left unsaid on a public forum.
4) You’re not in love with every person you date.
5) Actually accepting love into your life is fucking scary. It takes work. And a lot of facing your own fears and flaws.
6) I want to settle down and have a job, house, and babies. I want that cute shit. Despite every fucking fear I have.
Over all, 2012 was a motherfucking shit show full of cursing, weight oscillation, high blood pressure, constant irritation, exhaustion, nightmares and many many many Red Bulls.
Cheers, motherfucklings. Let’s ring in this new year, because I’m totally over this one.
When I first got a Tumblr, I followed mostly people I know.
Now, I don’t know anyone I follow. They just post cool stuff—photography I can’t do, graffiti I can’t do, choreography I can’t do, poetry I can do…a lot better than some people on my Tumblr, actually, new music, hip-hop, feminism, activism, Occupy Movements, economical woes with which I identify, and b!tches I don’t look like.
I feel like I should apologize (I’m totally being sarcastic, by the way) to all dudes everywhere. I’m sorry my tits don’t jiggle in tiny pieces of cloth…because they are real…and therefore tiny. I’m sorry I don’t have a two, four, or six pack, but can still smoke four blunts a day, in a thong, and Jordan III Black Cements. I’m sorry that most of the Filipino girls on Tumblr don’t know the real color of their hair, and aren’t known for being smart graduates of four year universities or their gift of passion and intelligence. I’m sorry that a lot of my sisters out there perpetuate this nasty cycle of sexism.
I’m so sorry that I don’t play Xbox 360, or Playstation 3 in a bustier, have four thousand useless tattoos of fucking Hello Kitty or whatever, do sexy things on top of cars with nice engines, dance on poles, or do anything else demeaning for your sexual delight.
FURTHERMORE, I am so sorry that womyn out there HAVE to do shit like this in order to have men like them because of self-esteem issues. I also apologize that womyn out there HAVE to do shit like this in order to get paid…and feed the mouths of their children…but are then faced with the scrutiny and shame of those outside the sex industry.
I just want to let you dudes know…that I get it…what pleases your eyes, pleases your eyes. But I’m sorry…that not all womyn look like the womyn you see on fucking Tumblr.
First of all, I want to wish luck to the man who will have my hand in marriage in the future because I’m a pretty good rhetorician. The man who can argue me down without belittling me is a man worth having.
Second of all, [love is fighting].
I feel like I named my blog this because, well, my entire life, I’ve only seen love as FIGHTING. I’ve not seen it as anything else. My parents fight. My family fights. My friends fight. I fight. Every single person I love most, I’ve fought with, and I’ve fought hard.
Last night, the significant other and I had quite the explosive fight. It could have ended in excruciating heart break and inexplicable pain on my insides, but I sat there…my lips quivering and my voice shaking…and I fought.
I did not yell. Scream. I DID cry. Hard. I said some things I should not have. I said some things I didn’t mean. I said some things that were not called for.
However, I did not beg.
There’s a sheer difference between begging to be with the person you may love, and fighting to be with them.
I did not beg.
Kathleen does not beg to be someone.
She can see very clearly if someone wants her gone from his/her life.
I fought because…
…you don’t understand. These past three months…haven’t been bliss…but they’ve been pretty important to me. I was let into this world of heartache, pain, sadness, and strength. It was a world that mirrored mine…maybe not to the T, but it was pretty damn close. And, see, it’s one thing to let someone into your life…to share aspects about your world that still sting, to have to put on this face like you’re this strong ass bitch who doesn’t take bullshit, but still somehow maintain that inner fragility because you know that if you let that go, you’ll just be the same as any of those other broken, bitter bitches out there.
I accept my brokenness.
I accept that I have been broken by a lot of guys. I also accept that I have broken a heart or two. I accept my past for being just that…my past.
Once something enters my past, I really try to leave it there…that’s why I try so hard in my present…because if you don’t try now, you can’t try again later. Guys to me, once they’ve taken that piece of my heart away with them, that void becomes a scar tissue. It’s harder to pierce. That piece of my heart will never ever be the same…and guys, oftentimes think that they can come back…and somehow put the flesh back that they stole from my heart like I’d be willing to bleed again for them.
Last night, I fought…because I’ve seen so many people fight and succeed.
I have fought in my past, and I have failed in my past…
I fight my mother and her views. Because there’s one thing I hate more than failure…and that is regret.
My past failures…I do not regret. I do not regret that I hurt during those times, that I cried during those times, that I had to swallow hard information, and fight back burning tears and the urge to publicly slander people on social networks. I do not regret that pain because at least I learned from it, and those people that DID hurt me are just scar tissue, and they know that they can’t pierce me anymore.
I refuse to sit here and let go of something I care about SO MUCH that easily…because that’s what caring about something or someone is about. Ever since ‘09, I’ve drastically changed my life. Damn straight it took HELLA therapy and anger management, but I was able to grow from a lot of goddamn inner torture.
You don’t know…if you’ll never see someone again. You don’t know if they’ll die in the next hour, get diagnosed with a rare terminal illness, fall off of a cliff, breathe their last breath, or something else.
If there’s ONE THING ANYONE should learn from that heinous Connecticut shooting, it’s that…no six year old wakes up and thinks, “I’m gonna watch Sesame Street, and then I’m gonna die today.” They think, “I’m gonna watch Sesame Street, and play four square at recess.”
And fuck dude, those teachers FOUGHT. They FOUGHT because they loved their students, and some of them had to DIE for that love.
So even if you’re not SURE you love someone…or if you’re DAMN sure you love someone, love them and appreciate the fact that they are breathing and able to touch you and laugh with you and hold your fucking hand. Because only the gods know when you will breathe your last, and you don’t know when death will take your life. You cannot predict your own death.
If you are BLESSED WITH THE OPPORTUNITY to love someone…ANYONE…even if just for a little bit…fucking LOVE THEM HARD for that time…
And FIGHT for the opportunity to love…because everyone should take that privilege to love. Don’t LET people tell you that you don’t deserve it, or you’re not meant for it, or you’re not meant to love.
That’s fucking bullshit.
Enjoy life and enjoy love.
[love is fighting]
So put on your boxing gloves and start swinging.
Look peeps, I fully think that if you were born with all the blessings in the world in terms of finance and stability, and you have lived a fluffy life complete with Egyptian sheets with 20000000 thread counts and duvets made out of the ass of a sheep, then GOOD FOR YOU. Enjoy it! I am happy for you.
However, I have several bones to pick with some of you folk.
And this is simply from experience…not from, like, me judging. Although, my experiences HAVE led me to be more judgmental towards your kind.
But okay, look, point is: I feel as though many people that I have encountered who HAVE led these lives are like social paraplegics. You can’t function without your money, and don’t fucking lie about it either. You make more judgments than the people you judge. MAYBE you know a struggle or two, but you get to go to rehabilitation centers with heated swimming pools and five course meals in Beverly Hills. You have one stressful thing happen to you and you go to the hospital for this thing called “exhaustion.” WTF? To us plain folk, it’s called invest in an energy drink. Calm the fuck down, you’ll live.
I hate it when people do stupid shit with their money just because they can…and then complain about Obama not having enough jobs for “America,” and increasing their taxes. Holy shit, kill yourselves. Forreal.
MY job security is threatened, NOT YOURS. I WORK HARD, YOU DON’T. ADMIT IT. My father can’t give me a job. Unless I want to work at the post office or enlist in the Navy Reserve, and uh. NO.
My mom doesn’t want me to be a nurse because a) I’ll be recapitulating the incessant cycle of Filipinos becoming nurses b) I don’t want to be a nurse anyway c) My mom worked 2-3 jobs her entire life and she doesn’t want that for me.
So they send me to school to work my ass off and somehow still get Cs and Ds because I have to take these stupid arbitrary classes to be in a major I dislike to get a job in a position that pays only a fraction of what you get for your stupid daily allowance!
SO QUIT FUCKING COMPLAINING ABOUT NOT BEING ABLE TO WEAR YOUR STUPID LOUIS VUITTON SUNGLASSES IN THE FUCKING RAIN.
/rant about people replying to my comment about judging people who wear sunglasses in the fucking rain on fucking facebook. FUCK.
Last night, I realized how truly fucked up I am emotionally.
Like seriously, I’m pretty slaughtered. Mutilated. Unrecognizable.
I have these waves where I’m angry at people for “making me this way.” But I realize that if I hold onto that bitterness, and that fear that they once gave me, the anger they gave me, then I’m no better than they are. And I always hated that whole cycle of assholianism. I mean, one asshole fucks with a nice girl who then turns into a slutty bitch who fucks with a nice guy who then turns into an asshole. Yeah, fuck that cycle. I refuse to be part of that.
But I feel like I’m on crazy pills! I feel possessive and jealous and all of these immature things that I NEVER EVER felt before my last few relationships. I get angry a lot more easily, and I have like this overwhelming fear that I will be left when I am in need of comfort the most. Then I play into that scenario and feel like I’m better off alone because guys leave you when you need it the most because they are all immature cowardly bastards who only care about themselves.
And my heart starts to race with anger. My head starts to fills with evil bitter memories of past beaus and excruciating heartaches, built up expectations turned into unrequited love and disappointments.
And all the while, I feel like a parallel more sensible me is riding alongside the irrational angry me throughout this wave of thoughts, trying to catch irrational/angry me and tell her that this anger and disappointment is all in the past and it was all bullshit, and I should seriously get over it.
But that fear! God, fear is inexplicable. It has its own prerogative. It starts right behind your right eyeball, and travels up your frontal lobe, and into your right brain—the part of your brain that is fecund with stories that never happened and colors that don’t exist, and it makes its home there and paints a picture of a story that never happened with the colors that don’t exist, and it augments and transforms your fear into something it is NOT. Yet your right brain makes you think that it IS. Your left brain analyzes the picture you have painted and knows this picture is just a picture, but your right brain sees it as a true and tragic event in your life that you must cry rivers over and scream and yell about.
I fall way too easily. Like seriously, all those pictures of anatomical hearts being held on to by a leash that is controlled by the brain—that is I. I am that. I am the heart that runs into knives and falls into holes. I bleed love out of my wounds, and pick my stupid scabs like a six year old at the playground, and assholes have entered my wounds like bacterial infections and proliferated their evilness throughout my heart.
And the getting back up again? That’s like pouring the hydrogen peroxide on my wounds. It makes you scream and cry…but you know it will close your wounds faster…but probably leave a scar…of a bad love turned bacterial infection.
And the love…
Well…I don’t know what kind of love I have right now. That story is still being written…in colors that do exist…and I’m head over heels, but scared. And the fear of getting hurt again or disappointed again throbs and if you listen really carefully, I’m sure you can hear my fear in the form of shallow rapid breaths.
Alls I know is that I need to quit thinking about this bullshit and do my fucking homework.
Congratulations if you read the whole thing. I’ll buy you an imaginary cookie with the cash I don’t have…
I don’t care what anyone says, Brown Sugar is one of, if not my absolute favorite movie. I’ve seen it over one thousand times no doubt, not even a hyperbole, and I never tire of it.
When did you first fall in love with hip hop?
Though I have been a fan of hip hop for a good portion of my life, I could only say that I “loved” it…not that I was IN love with it. When did I fall IN LOVE with hip hop? Not even two years ago. I saw Hopie Spitshard spit lines live at Sac State, a show I helped make happen. It inspired me that a female MC with hella mad style was able to get on stage and own it like a man…even better than a lot of men, actually.
I’m all about inspirational womyn. I love womyn in positions of power, who own their art, who never let men get them down, who have had broken hearts, but always mended them, and never lost their minds. In addition, I love womyn who operate in these positions of power, but never lose a sense of humility. Undoubtedly, getting to a position of power did not come without trials and failures, but just to see womyn succeed is a beautiful thing.
I haven’t written a piece in over four months. My pink notebook is collecting dust, and if I try to write, everything sounds contrived and unreal. Countless scribbles of one-liners, no development, abrupt endings…it’s frustrating.
The thing is, though, that after these past few months, my mind is starting to become fecund with lines again…indubitable pain, self-doubt, wanting to rise again. Rhythms following, I can feel my head bopping to the beat of my heart, and I’m starting to feel what I say.
And this real place? This is something that is incomparable to the mainstream, much like what Sidney says in the movie:
I remember the exact day I fell in love with Hip Hop. (…). Little did I know how much Hip Hop would be a part of my life. (…). Hip hop was as young, naive… confused… sometimes innocent, and sometimes as mischievious as I was. And as I grew up, Hip Hop grew with me… and along the way it took on all my baggage, my dreams… I felt Hip Hop and Hip Hop felt me. And I know that everyone who loves the music feels the same way I do.
For many people Hip Hop was that first friend… the first to talk to us, the first to understand. Hip Hop has always been that kind of friend to me. And like any relationship… I watched it grow, I watched it change.
The union of Hip Hop to the mainstream… was a hard thing to imagine. Hip Hop was always this personal regional thing that belonged to just me. Starting with “Fab 5 Freddie” and Yo! MTV Raps! Anyone with a television set and cable box could get a piece of hip hop. I knew I was gonna have to share… and that was hard to get used to.
Just when you think you know everything there is to know about Hip Hop, it finds a way to surprise you… and remind you why you fell in love in the first place.
So what is the difference between “Rap” and Hip Hop? Its simple… Its like the difference between saying you love somebody… and being in love with somebody. “Rap” is just a word!
I always thought… One day I would outgrow my relationship with Hip Hop. I never thought it was a “fad” like many, but I never thought it could grow and mature. I thought it would be an adolescent memory I’d look back on… like a crush on the captain of the football team. But I realize we have more than that… much more. We have a history… a friendship… We listen to each other… We laugh together… We finish each others lyrics. I dont have to pretend with Hip Hop, and Hip Hop doesnt have to pretend with me. My feelings have never been more clear, and I know they will never go away.
Rap is just a word. I don’t have to pretend with Hip Hop, and Hip Hop doesn’t have to pretend with me.
I’m getting better at letting this anger flow through me.
Dwelling on the past, staying stationary on the pain, that’s something you do to yourself. It’s not something someone does to you.
Sure, he/she affects you for a second. Literally, it takes one second to be hurt. It’s the reaction that gets you, but you can choose to react, or you can choose to PROact.
I’m going to be proactive…sometimes you feel really gassed out. That’s human. If you don’t accept that sadness is a primary emotion, that hurt affects you, that you HAVE to address it, then you are a robot. Quite possibly a sociopath. And I think you’d need heavy psychoanalysis.
One thing I’ve learned in the past three years of my growth is that accepting yourself for everything you are…including your flaws…is the best thing you could ever do for yourself. It’s the healthiest thing you can do for yourself.
I admit that I have this obsession with being strong. I’d rather be called strong than be called pretty. Blame it on Kappa. I don’t know. But I have this obsession with being able to rise from struggles…of course, not all of life is a struggle, but when struggle is there, the most positive thing you can tell yourself is that struggle is temporary…oppression is a state of mind. And struggling/oppression…most of the time…is 50% you making yourself struggle.
Shit gets hard, life ain’t no joke. Mother Nature don’t play. The devil is everywhere…wreaking havoc like the world is his play thing. But the best thing you can do is just trust yourself to pull yourself up and to find positivity even in the darkest hour.
It’s funny, since finding out the thing that hurt me…like seriously stabbed my heart and twisted the knife hurt me…then pulled it out and watched me bleed kind of pain…I haven’t cried. I tried really hard to cry. I promise, I did. I was borderline PUSHING my tears out…but nothing came out. I didn’t even throw up the night after I drank…and I drank a lot.
That’s a good thing right? Yes, that’s a fantastic thing. It shows that I’m growing. It shows that I’m not REacting…You’d think that the hurt would be DEBILITATING, but no. I go to work. I work hard. I go to school. I study hard…I live by myself. I feed myself. I’m talented (I think). I’m beautiful (I think). I have an amazing amazing amazing family, and…a very very tiny but quality group of friends, and that’s IMPORTANT for me to realize.
Maybe I didn’t always realize it, you know? Especially when life was sucking extra hard…it was hard to realize what I had…but now I know what I have, what I’ll always have, what no one could ever take from me or break me down enough that I’ll betray myself.
I’m good. Don’t trip.
“Doesn’t mean I’m lonely when I’m alone.”