The Sunset of My Discontent
And the case for endless periods
Today could’ve ended a lot worse if not for the somewhat unsteady treadmill — and the streaks of violet staining the fading sky.
A fucked up day never ends without ceremony. And I observed mine. I stood at attention as I witnessed the sole reason why we can guarantee the pleasure of tomorrow.
Whether we live or die.
Your departure from this earth won’t shake the foundations of this extreme habitat.
But your promise to stick around might do exactly that if you dare.
A plane lands on the strip ahead and suddenly I am awakened to the traffic right in front of me and the boys on their bikes speeding past me.
The neon lights flash against my eyes and I reprogram my stance as I proceed on to another night of purposeful reflection with the aid of a buzzball.
My energetic pace forces me to begin right away to disorganize my thoughts as I dive into a spotty trance that paralyzes the influx of reactionary fodder with no methodical applications.
Bob Marley died way too young. I’m almost certain he would’ve been chill with Snapchat’s misidentified shoutout.
I’m sick of period pieces that complain about periods. I miss those days of gushing blood and the wet vagina. Those aren’t gone. Completely. Yet.
Rihanna is the shit. I want to be her for just one day.
Drake makes me wet and ambitious. He’s a genius and the reason why the unsteady treadmill feels so damn good.
Why isn’t Starbucks consistent? And why do I go there enough times to realize this?
If you contemplate suicide after a shitty phone interview — does that make you crazy or bratty?
Kanye West makes me sad.
Beyoncé’s Beyonce saved my life. When it dropped, I listened to it over and over and over and over and…
I’m obsessed with Paul Walker. I truly believe he is stranded somewhere and won’t return until Fast and Furious stops being The Fast and The Furious.
I do remember a time when The Kardashians didn’t exist.
I hate being in my forties and single because getting knocked up naturally is no longer a secret delight.
I want to be married. I don’t. I want to be married. I don’t. I want to be married. I don’t?
Being thin and black got me nowhere. Being thin with long legs got me everywhere I could get to by foot.
I once attended a Q&A that featured respectable black women basking in their accomplished dreams. They told us never to give them business cards at functions because they will rip them apart later.
I gave my business card to the Nigerian editor at Elle and she looked at me as if she was planning to tear my card. Apart.
I miss being young and beautiful because being older and beautiful is way too dignified for me.
Working hard and being good pales in comparison to being lucky.
I’m scared that my younger brother is sicker than he thinks.
I am frightened that my symptoms may indicate a future filled with certainties.
South Beach is where I will rest for eternity.
New York is a fucked up place to be if you’re regular. L.A. is a fucked up place to be if you’re pessimistic.
Harriet Tubman doesn’t deserve the $20 bill. She deserves a suite at The White House or a new state created in her honor.
Shit! God knows we have enough land to make that happen.
Donald Trump fired himself and then America rehired him.
I will miss Obama but he won’t miss me or you.
I am now contentedly immersed in my discontent.
The lines of the sunset rally my thoughts into a file of gratitude and recognition of the possibilities that I can now stuff into my grasp.
I see Brazil in the horizon and the notepad where I will jot down notes for later.
The festive air fostered by the heat of the athletes that have come to play.
I see me winning after dismissing my losing streak.
I am no Olympian but this sunset is a champ!