My super-duper, unapologetically long manifesto, or, “yes, i’m 30. whooptee fuckin doo.”

I began this blog a little over a year ago.

I was finally dealing with a breakup from a man I’d dated on and off for the better part of six years, and coming to grips with what I’d considered an indeterminate future.

I was 28, roughly a year into my second law firm job, and a little uncertain with respect to what a rational, responsible adult my age was supposed to look like.

A year prior, at 27, I’d come to the conclusion revelation that nothing in this world truly mattered. Not in the way we all seemed to think it did, rather. I wasn’t becoming cynical, or apathetic; it just occurred to me that I’d spent the majority of my life placing great emphasis on so many bullshit things, never stopping to consider the temporal nature of it all.

New me was on some “We pass this way but once” type shit.

New me was in the midst of a full on conversion to Epicureanism.

New me codified her sentiments in an idiom she proclaimed to whoever would listen. “Life is long, but youth is short,” New me would say.

The expression gave me life, and indeed, some limited sense of purpose. Every time I breathed it, aloud, into open air, it was a license to tomfuckery.

While I was taking babysteps to my freedom from institutionalized patterns of thought and behavior back then, it would be another two years before I crossed into full-fledged i-don’t-give-a-damn-ery.

Which brings us to present day.

In less than one month I will be 30.

As I couldn’t give a hearty damn about some arbitrary number the world at large has capriciously designated a milestone in my own personal life—a life, about which “the world” knows nothing—I’ve given the occasion little thought.

But all about me, everyone seems to care.

I mean care, care.

Like, 30 is big shit to a lot of people.

Everywhere I turn, there are these lists—Things to Do Before You’re 30, What You Should Know By 30, 30 Things to Do Before You’re 30­—and it all just seems like hogwash to me; a complete waste of time. If a naturally occurring, chronological determinate date, over which you have absolutely no control, is the marker by which you assess your current life state, you need to get another fucking life. Like, ASAP.

But………..from all I’ve observed, some cursory bout of self-reflection, demonstrated in list-format is appropriate.

I’ll comport with custom—kinda—one final time, for the cheap seats….

10 Things You Should Do When You Finally Wake Up and Realize It Doesn’t Fucking Matter 

 

1. Give in to your anger and tell someone who deserves it an emphatic “Fuck you,” “Fuck Off,” or “Go Fuck Yourself.”

Thoreau said, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Seriously, there might not be a more depressing quote in existence.

It’s true, though. We expend immeasurable portions of our lives trying to perfectly fit into clearly-defined lines, telling ourselves to “grin and bear it.” In order for civilization to remain “civilized;” to prevent reversion to Rosseau’s proverbial “state of nature” where we fight it out like savage beasts at every pass, each of us must be occasionally willing to concede some ground in the face of conflict.

Fair enough.

The problem is, we’re conceding more and more, every day. This is particularly true for those of us set up in our dignified, hyper-educated, professional spaces. Our lives become this predictable pattern of acquiescence.

Here’s what you need to know. People can smell it on you. They can tell that you’ve been trained, systematized. And they will feed off of it; talk wild to you, firm in their reasoning that “You.aint.gon.do.sheeit.”

This is what I believe. You can stay in your lane every day of your life, if you so choose. It’s not going to make you successful; or a titan of industry. The real winners are the rogues, the cowboys, the desperadoes who are willing to occasionally push propriety aside and live on the margins.

Alas! Get thee to an f-bomb. If there is one message I’d like to leave this world with, upon my departure, it is, that nobody but NOBODY is above a well-timed f-bomb. NOBODY.

To date, I have told one client, and one doctor proclaiming himself to be terminally ill that they could go fuck themselves.

I have told one lawyer that he could represent to his client, on my behalf, my desire for him to go fuck himself.

I have told two men, with whom I’ve been romantically acquainted, to fuck off.

I have told the friend of one of one of those men,  that said romantic attachment could “Go fuck his mother.”

I’m still here.

And know what?

ALL of those people came back.

2.  Accept that honesty is NOT the best policy. You’re living in a fucking fantasy.

Anyone who tells you that honesty is the best policy lives one of two diametrically opposed realities: 1. He/She is *the* biggest asshole on the planet, or 2. He/She has the most bullshit ass monotonously boring life ever.

Look, I’m gonna give you some advice that is going to free you, okay?

Ready?

Lie.

Just.lie.okay?

You know the most popular thing people say when they’ve just revealed some great truth to another party? “I felt so relieved. It was as if this huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.”

Anyone wanna hazard a guess as to where all of that “lifted weight” goes?

Thhhhhhaaaaat’s right. Square on the shoulders of that motherfucker you just saw fit to bulldoze with alla that truth.

You think you’re this bastion of ethical righteousness because you chose to tell the truth? No, no. Try again. You’re a selfish asshole.

Look. If you love me, you need to go ahead and lie to me. Tell me I look thin. Tell me you like my blog. Tell me you didn’t fuck that girl. Just lie. Don’t think that our love is strong enough to overcome these monumental acts of betrayal. It’s not. Stop thinking that I’m a big enough woman to see to the heart of your affection for me and give you another chance. I’m not. Lie to me, baby. I’d do it for you.

The flip side is that you’re this mouse of a person, always dutifully seeing to the needs of others, putting your wants and desires behind everyone else’s. You’re this chaste virgin of the Hearth, ever-campaigning for wholesome happiness and sprinkles and rainbows to be spread throughout the Earth. You want for nothing but quiet simplicity, and to be a living, breathing personification of Christ’s love.

You don’t lie because you have nothing to lie about. You literally spend your days doing good deeds, or no deeds at all.

Really, good for you.

Personally, I’d rather die.

3.  Get up and wordlessly walk out of a room. Hang up on someone.

Look. I don’t know about you, but, my time is precious. I don’t have a whole lot of excess seconds and minutes to be passing time with a bunch of dicks. So, when I feel like a conversation has gotten to a place where I am no longer interested, or a place that is particularly aggravating or patently offensive, I simply take my leave.

I will walk out of a client meeting. I will walk out of an argument or a would-be argument with a friend or romantic interest. And you can bet that sweet ass I will hang up on a motherfucker. With a quickness.

But here’s how you have to do it in grown up stance—wordlessly.

Don’t knock any desks over. Don’t make any violently loud protestations. Only a bitchass makes a demonstration of strength only to dip and not deal with the repercussions. No, no. Yours is a quiet exit. It’s not about the physical act of your departure or the physical reality of the now-dead phone line. It’s your mental state of no-longer-give-a-fuck-ness that is important, here. It’s not about the other person at all. You are saying to yourself, “Wait.a.minute. I just stopped giving a damn. I’m gonna go.”

And here’s why.

Because.you.fucking.can.

It’s high time we all start to acknowledge the fact that we are grown ups. And you know what—save some jarringly illegal exceptions—I can do whatever the hell I want.

So I will.

4.  Be unapologetic about the amount of television you watch.

Okay. So right. There’s this “movement” among academics and intellectuals that’s been underfoot for a while. And it’s rooted in this hoity-toity, “I’m too smart to waste my time watching television; there’s nothing but trash on it anyway” stream of thought.

FUCK.

YOU.

Do you know how ridiculous you sound?

Do you know how many fucking channels there are?

Really?

Really?

There’s nothing of merit, nothing worthy of your attention, in a thousand channels?

How about the news, Numbnuts? You don’t think live broadcast programming of an interview conducted with Hamid Karzai is worth your time? Oh. Okay.

My love of television doesn’t make me an idiot, or some mindless nothing. And when I get home from my relentlessly demanding job, I watch “Bad Girls Club,” the entirety of the “Real Housewives” franchise, “Maury”—the trash of the trash, people. And, you know what, “I feels jes fine” about it ( © Shug Avery).

5.  Stop worrying about how fat/ugly you are.

Seriously. Just stop. It’s tired.

Do something about it, or shut the fuck up about it.

Just stop worrying about it. Stop letting that shit run you. 

If I could go back in time and tell my 15 year old self just one thing, it would be that personality is what matters the most in the get-ass game. Personality.

It’s what matters in the friendship game. It’s what matters in the professional game. Personality is everything.

You know the reason why everyone hates your ugly girlfriend, ladies? It’s not because she’s so ugly.

Oh, no. It’s because her ugliness has metastasized into this black nebulous of hateration. She’s discontent in her ugly status, and is prepared to use the full throttle of her ugly resources to bitch, whine, ruin your good time, cockblock you, and ultimately, attempt to slowly suffocate any happiness you are able to actualize.

NOT because she’s so damned ugly.

But because she can’t get over that shit.

Look. They can’t all be bangers. Some of us are destined to be trolls; “swamp donkeys” ( © S. Bernard Shaw, front-free.com).

Write some shitty spoken word about it and get the hell over it. You are a grown ass woman. What in the fuck do you look like crying about how you look? I need to go grab a drink and figure out how to make income in the midst of a recession, and your monkey ass don’t wanna go out because you got a pimple. Grow the fuck up.

6.  Put something ridiculous on display in your office and refuse to comment on it.

In my last office, in the midst of diplomas and law stuff, I had: a plastic, bloody, severed arm, a book on my desk called Apes and Monkeys, and a stapler completely bejeweled in pink rhinestones.

The point?

Even if your job is serious, it’s not that serious.

I don’t give a damn what you do.

“You are not your job.”–Tyler Durden.

That’s right.

Fight Club.

I just went there.

You’re welcome.

The truth of the matter is, no matter what you do; no matter how good you are at it; no matter how many awards and accolades you receive—no one will ever be able to truly appreciate how much you give, or how much you contribute. Even if you devote all of your time to making other people’s lives better. When it’s all said and done, we’re all too caught up in our own shit to ever truly understand the extent of the sacrifices others have made on our behalf. It’s fucked up, but true.

And, oh yeah, by the way—

You’re expendable.

Like FUCK.

So go ahead and cover the back of your laptop with SpongeBob stickers. I guarandamntee it won’t matter worth a damn.

7.  Say something inappropriate to your parents.

This shit should actually be Number One on this list.

At the most elementary level, your parents are unable to see you as an adult until you force them to see you as an adult.

Now, this is largely because the majority of us engage in childish shit.

The fact remains, however, that we are adults.

And I am a firm believer that parents have as much to learn from children as children their parents.

Now, my parents were UNCOMMONLY strict when I was growing up.

And through some very expensive, carefully orchestrated psychotherapy sessions, I am learning to come to terms with some of the perhaps irreparable damage done during the course of my childhood.

All of that aside, when I finally started to show my parents the real adult me (through a series of awkward sexual references and well-placed “Damnits”), they began to see me as the real adult me. Not some well-assembled genetic replica meant to be doted on and showcased. And I actually think they like me more, because I like me more when I’m not playacting for their benefit. They trust my adult judgment, even if they don’t understand it.

And you know what? While plenty of y’all are faking the funk, pretending to lead these virginal lives, and getting drawes and socks for Christmas—

My parents just returned from vacation bearing gifts of shotglasses and booze.

Really.

Who’s winning, here?

8.  Take an afternoon and just dedicate it to pornography.

I’m looking at you, ladies.

For the life of me, I will never understand how we all became so vehemently anti-porn.

I don’t wanna hear shit about porn objectifying women, and the hazards of porn. Don’t say it to me, ladies. I don’t wanna hear it. And let me tell you why.

I know that 89% of y’all making these protestations haven’t seen any porn.

And even if you have seen some, you haven’t seen a broad cross section of it.

I’m not telling you that you have to derive some sexual gratification from it. I’m not saying that you have to like it. I’m not even suggesting that you engage in some anti-Christine O’Donnell to it.

I’m just telling you that you need to see what’s out there.

Odds are, if you haven’t peeped any, you are the absolute worst where it counts. And you might not even know that you’re the worst. But you are.

More to the point, men watch porn.

Some less than others, sure.

But, men watch porn.

Are you telling me  you feel comfortable with a group of people who constitute half of this nation’s demographic watching some shit you’ve never seen before?

It’s like those people who brag, “I’ve never seen one episode of Seinfeld,” or “I’m happy to say I’ve never seen one episode of Friends.”

Well now. You’ve just shut yourself out of a solid 15-20 years of cultural references that everyone else around you can—at the very least—recognize.

You’ve successfully managed to stay in the dark. Congratu-fuckin-lations.

Trust me, ladies.

Take a day.

I personally like to call it, “Self-Abuse Saturday,” but, whatever your pleasure—

Open a bottle of wine.

Draw the blinds.

And watch a few flicks.

You may not know it now, but this is the exact reason you moved out of your parents’ home.

It might not change your life, but, you can probably stand a temporary disruption from our normally scheduled programming.

BTW—

Don’t download that shit.

9.  Stop being a pussy about being alone.

I’m an only child, so perhaps I have the advantage here, but, I can never get my mind behind these need-to-be-all-up-under-you types. You have to be on your phone. You have to be with your friends. You have to be with your girlfriend/boyfriend.

If you can’t stand to be around just you, why in the holy fuck do you think anyone else will want to?

That doesn’t even make sense.

It will not kill you to have a drink by yourself.

It will not kill you to just sit in your home and stare up at the ceiling for a bit.

If we, indeed, grow from our experiences, a great many of us are missing out on vital parts of our personal progression when we shuck aside the value in experiencing ourselves. Like, in our truest form. Stripped of makeup and fancy clothes. Devoid of business cards, and explanations of comings and goings. Completely protected from our friends’ prying eyes or judgment.

You know the number one complaint of my married/parent friends? They don’t have any time to just be by themselves.

And here we all are, imprisoned by this seemingly-flip expression that has been drilled into our heads for the better part of two decades: “single and ready to mingle.”

No, Boo boo.

Try, “single and ready to roll dolo because I ain’t got no muthafuckin kids, what what!!! Hootie hoo, my dude!!”

My periodic absences from civilization are LEGENDARY in my friendship circles.

I’m finding more and more inner peace by the day.

10.  Stop looking to everyone else for the answers to shit.

I know, I know.

Really?

After I’ve just dedicated 2,000 words of “to do?”

Hear me out.

It has been said that only a fool relies on his own counsel.

I totally agree.

As a matter of fact, in my estimation, the only thing better than a sound piece of advice is a sound piece of tail.

And if anyone has any sound advice as to how to effectively pursue a sound piece of tail…whoaaaa buddy.

My apologies.

We’re nearing the end, it’s been a long road, and I’ve digressed into ass-talk. Forgive me. Habit.

The point is, there is no harm in seeking advice. Or giving it when solicited (*cough* I’m pretending y’all solicited this shit *cough*).

We just need to take care about that which we’re seeking—advice. Counsel.

NOT “answers.”

I watched this episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta the other day (Fuck off, tv haters), and saw that countless Black women had piled themselves into a seminar on how to find love taught by some asshole named “Dr.” Tiy-E (see, tv haters—you’d KNOW why I put the “Dr.” in “ “s and called him an asshole if you’d WATCHED. Now you have to google it, while everyone else can just flow, knowingly with the remainder of the entry).

These bitches PAID a SINGLE man to tell them HOW to find love.

Are.you.fucking.serious?

Like, they paid good money, with the understanding that this follicle-ly challenged court jester would give them the answer to why they’re single.

People have been finding love for centuries, FOR FREE AS A MOTHERFUCKER, and they paid this monkey for an *answer.*

Well, merrymakers, here’s some advice for the “bargain price of –on the house—“ :

Stop.looking.for.the.answers.

There aren’t any.

Got it?

The answer is literally, whatever the hell you say it is.

Start making your own answers.

Better yet, find the maverick in you and have the courage to do as Rilke suggested—

“Live the questions now. Perhaps, someday, far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answers.”

(Kudos to my angel, “Michael,” for putting me on to this particular quote.)

This is the only life we’ve got, people.

With odds like that, who the fuck can afford to waste time worrying about 30?

to my friend, “jessie,” who thought she’d never make an appearance in my blog, or, “there should be an app for discerning stupid ass phonecalls late at night.”

I don’t sleep a great deal.

I haven’t really slept much at all, actually, for the past 11 years.

Part of this pseudo-insomnia is a result of my rigorous work schedule.

Another part, still–a function of my active social calendar.

I am forced to concede, however, the lion’s share of my sleepless nights are directly attributable to my overall sketchy character.

A peaceful night’s slumber is a luxury shady girls can little afford.

So, as you might imagine, I was more than a bit frustrated when my phone rang at 4:33 am, Friday night/Saturday morning.

What follows is the exchange I had with my girl, “Jessie,” as best I can remember it.

Me: “I just know that this is an emergency.”

“Jessie”: “I think I’m going to be celibate.”

Me: “But, I’m confused, ‘cos, when there’s an emergency there’s usually some indicator of imminent danger.”

“Jessie”: “I’m serious. I’m thinking I’m gonna be celibate.”

Me: “And I can’t hear any indicators of imminent danger. No sirens. No screams. No muffled murmurs of a would-be rapist at your anal cavity.”

“Jessie”: “Can you please be serious? I’m thinking of becoming celibate.”

Me: “You’re gonna sell-a-what?”

“Jessie”: “You heard me.”

Me: “But I’m pretending that I didn’t.”

“Jessie”: “I think I’m going to make Eric wait six months until I sleep with him. Listen, when you think about it, so much of our lives are consumed by sex. But, when you think about it, truly think about it, what is really the most important thing in a relationship?”

Me: *silence*

“Jessie”: “Well?”

Me: “I was gonna say ‘sex,’ but something tells me that’s not the answer you were looking for. Can this shit wait, say…idunno, SIX MORE HOURS?”

“Jessie”: “I wanna talk about it now. I’m not giving it up until a man can show that he’s committed to me. That he wants something substantial and long term.”

Me: “Did you even look at your contacts when you made this phone call? Like, did you mean to call me? I think you need to hang up and try someone else.”

“Jessie”: “I’m serious! I wanna know what you think.”

Me: “I think you’re dumb.”

“Jessie”: “What?”

Me: “I think you’re dumb. You can’t determine how committed to you a dude is by not fucking him. Being celibate is a personal choice. You can only make that shit for you.”

“Jessie”: “So?”

Me: “ ‘So,’ while you’re out there being celibate, working on your faux-devoted-litmus test, your seemingly ‘committed’ man is going to be creeping over to the homes of broads like me by nightfall—“

“Jessie”: “WHAT?”

Me: “Broads like me who don’t set up arbitrary determinants and dress them up as legitimate indicators of future relationship success.”

“Jessie”: “Why are you being so harsh about it?”

Me: “This is only the third conversation I’ve had like this in the last month. Apparently this celibacy shit is catching. Did a bunch of sad bitches get together and read a book about it without me?”

“Jessie”: “Fooler—“

Me: “I don’t ever get invited to the sad bitches conventions anymore. You ain’t never seen rejection til a group of unhappy bitches don’t want you around no more.”

“Jessie”: “So how am I supposed to tell if a guy is for real or not if the first thing I do when I meet him is jump into bed with him?”

Me: “I like to wait til he’s asleep and try to steal a little black, nappy tendril of his hair.”

“Jessie”: “Fooler—“

Me: “If I set fire to it, and it burns up into a little stinky afro-crisp, he’s a good man.”

“Jessie”: “I fucking hate you.”

Me: “But if it just sits there and stays nappy, in defiance of the flame—“

“Jessie”: “I hope you die.”

Me: “Then he dances with the devil under the pale moonlight.”

“Jessie”: “I want to be wined and dined. Don’t you want to be wined and dined? Don’t even pretend like you don’t. I miss just spending time with a guy. Just cuddled up next to him, under him. I just want someone to hold me, and rub my feet—“

Me: “I don’t like it when people fuck with my feet—“

“Jessie”: “and tell me how much he likes me. I just want us to be with each other; to spend all day with each other on a rainy afternoon, just—idunno. Experiencing each other. Don’t you want to do that?”

Me: “ *sigh*”

“Jessie”: “See!!! Even you think that sounds nice.”

Me: “Do you know what bloody time it is?”

“Jessie”: “Admit it. Everything I said sounds nice.”

Me: “It’s so wrong of you to subject me to this when my defenses are down. I really just want to go to sleep.”

“Jessie”: “Not before you admit that everything I said sounds good.”

Me: “IT SOUNDS GOOD, BITCH. CAN I SLEEP?”

“Jessie”: “I knew it!”

Me: “Whatever.”

“Jessie”: “You want the same thing as me. I knew it.”

Me: “Mmmhmm. Only I think that the afternoon would be rounded off quite nicely with some sex at the end.”

“Jessie”: “Sex ruins things. Sex makes things complicated.”

Me, sitting upright: “Look. I’m going to say this, and then I’m going to hang up. And we will have to either agree to disagree, or whatever. You know what my biggest problem with criminal practice is? Motherfuckers don’t have any sense of accountability. My ability to create a defense for you; my ability to create a smokescreen out of an illegal stop or an illegal search doesn’t negate the fact that you have a quarter of an ounce in your console. Sex isn’t a person. Sex isn’t a real, sentient being. You can’t blame sex for anything. If you have a problem with the way you handle shit with men after having sex with them, the issue isn’t the sex. It’s your faulty handling. If you think dudes dog you out after you’ve had sex with them, the problem isn’t the sex you had. It’s the dude you had sex with. A good man isn’t a better man because he was willing to jump through five million fiery hoops just to bone your raggedy ass. In fact, in my mind, he’s a chump—“

“Jessie”: “You think he’s a chump because he’s patient and will wait?”

Me: “I think he’s a chump because he’s agreed to let you set some ridiculous terms, based on no established rationale in particular. Y’all are two grown people. You want to have sex with each other. You’ve had sex with men before—countless men, I might add—“

“Jessie”: “Easy, there—“

Me: “and now, for no reason whatsoever, Eric, having committed no harm or foul against you, has to wait while you lock it up for God knows how long, until your designated start date. That’s dumb. And by the way, that’s NOT celibacy.”

“Jessie”: “How is it—“

Me: “Look. If you know when you’re not gonna be celibate anymore; like if you have a ‘get some’ start date that isn’t marriage, you’re not celibate. You’re just being grown and not banging anything that moves. There is no problem in waiting until you’re comfortable to have sex with someone. But that’s not celibacy. That’s what anyone who’s not a slamwhore does. But having a six month rule; holding out as leverage to assess someone’s goodness—that’s wack.”

“Jessie”: “I just want things to stay nice. I want him to take me out, and treat me like a lady. I want him to open doors for me, and call when he says he will. Send me ‘Just Because’ flowers.”

Me: “Then tell him you’re a high maintenance broad, and be done with it. This shit isn’t rocket science. I don’t know why you insist on all of this game-playing. I don’t have that kind of time. And speaking of which, yours is about up. I’m going to bed. Don’t call me anymore.”

“Jessie”: “You know what your problem is?”

Me: “Sleep deprivation and worrisome-ass friends who refuse to marry ‘shut’ and ‘the fuck up’?”

“Jessie”: “You’re not a romantic. At least you refuse to show it if you are. There’s no shame in it you, know.”

Me: “Hanging up—“

“Jessie”: “I bet you are one. You play so tough, but I bet you’ve done your share of swooning—“

**dial tone**

I noticed, with disgust, traces of pale blue creeping through my curtains, and saw that the time on my phone read 5:17. Turning it off completely, I returned my head to my pillow.

Unable to get comfortable, I shuffled the pillow a solid three times before casting it aside, entirely, and resting my head on my arms.

I sat up, suddenly, upon hearing a nearly-inaudible “thud” hit my hardwood floor with the pillow.

Reaching down, I felt around until I found the sound’s origins.

In the palm of my hand I clutched one, pale pink copy of Love Poems of Pablo Neruda.

I put the book down, and closed my eyes, to usher in sleep, but not before saying to no one in particular, “I fucking hate ‘Jessie.’”

Fooler Fridays……

So, my postings are a tad on the irregular side….
what, with my paying job and all….

A friend of mine has suggested that I open up this page to reader questions…and, while I must wholeheartedly concede that I am qualified to advise absolutely no one person on any one thing, I do think a Q and A forum might help with my consistency….

So, starting tomorrow, Friday, the 7th of May, I will open this space up for questions. I’ll try to post the queries and my responses every Friday for as long as they come.

No topic is verboten, obviously, save legal questions, as I’m fairly certain blindly responding to legal questions on a blog space is, at its worst, malpractice, and at its best, malfeasance.

So, by all means, indulge my internet narcissism.
And with that…let the Friday fuckery begin……

because “some people think cucumbers taste better pickled,” or “i resolve not to resolve, pt. ii”

It’s the end of January, and by now, most people’s New Year’s Resolutions are long gone. Fortunately for the world, at large, I–convinced of my own perfection–determined not to make any this year.  

At any rate, I was motivated by a bout of self reflection, tonight, and came up with the second half of my two-part series: “I Resolve Not to Resolve.”  I realize I was supposed to complete this something like 25 days ago, but, I can’t be constrained by arbitrary deadlines.

So here you have it:

I Resolve not to Resolve, Pt. II: Shit I Wasn’t Above Doing in 2009, and As Such, Shall Continue Doing in 2010…

1. Taking a pad and pen to a meeting with a senior partner where he thinks I’m taking elaborate notes, when really I’m just writing down every ridiculous thing he says so that I can transcribe them to narrative form and tell all of my friends on facebook.

2. Responding to any excessive and unsolicited stories you tell me about your children with stories about my dogs.

3. Ignoring your calls, emails, and generally not talking to you for two months, then hitting you up at 9:30 pm on a Tuesday night with a “So, what are you doing?” text, cause shit’s getting a little tight.

4. Stealing my neighbor’s NY Times. Seriously. We’re on a 24 hour news cycle. What the hell kind of douchebag gets anything other than the weekend edition in 2010? It’s not theft if I’m saving him from his own innate pretentiousness.

5. Dropping the c-bomb. It’s abrasive, I know, but so necessary sometimes. And it only backfired that one time in ’09 when I inadvertently called my client one on her voicemail. Calling her the c-bomb wasn’t inadvertent, of course. Allowing Verizon to record me calling her the c-bomb was.

6. Assuming that I’m better than any woman who:

-wears white leather boots

Or

-chunky square heels.

Honestly, if you don’t think you’re better than a white boot or a chunky heel, how can you expect me to?

7. Sending any unsolicited nudy pictures that you send me to all of my friends. Emphasis here on the word “unsolicited.”

8. Hitting you up two months after receipt of said pictures at 9:30 pm on a Tuesday with a “So, what are you doing?” text.

9. Hanging up the phone on my clients. Not all of them, mind you. Just the ones who insist on speaking with me directly.

10. Fantasizing about my new psychoanalyst while he’s talking about steps I can take to be more focused in my life outlook. At least that’s what i think he was talking about. That’s what I’m paying him to talk about. Really I could only concentrate on his sexy lips moving. Which, by the way, I count as progress. Cause I was focusing on them.

11. Premising a sentence with “forgive me” so that I can say some really disrespectful shit in the next breath.

12. Pretending to take down all of a client’s background information, but really g-chatting with my friends; then, making my assistant call said client two hours later to do a “followup interview.” It’s not unethical if I’m not billing for it.

13. Making my assistant feel really bad when she complains about how annoyed my client was at having to do a “followup interview” by telling her about how hard it is to be a lawyer and how busy I am.

14. Laughing out loud in inappropriate situations when something is legitimately funny, including, but not limited to:

-client meetings

-moments of silence (I can think of nothing more worthless than a moment of silence)

-court

-church (last week, my friend, “Michael” said this woman in this horrible fur coat looked like Huggy Bear)

15. Walking out—often in inappropriate situations—when I’m tired, but mainly bored, including, but  not limited to:

-client meetings

-moments of silence (seriously, if some harm should befall me, you have my permission to keep fucking talking)

-court

-church (And she did. She really did look like Huggy Bear.)

16. Saying under my breath, at any given time, but most especially during conference calls with opposing counsel:

-“your mama”

-“that’s what she said”

-“deez nuts”

then, inexplicably snickering.

17. Telling my pregnant friend about how huge her ass is getting—then convincing her that her pregnancy hormones are making her hypersensitive when she starts to tell me how mean I am for talking about how huge her ass is getting. In reality, it’s not even that big. I just like to fuck with her.

18. Illegally parking and then letting the 3-fingered meter man stroke the inside of my palm while speculating why a sweet girl like myself isn’t married, to avoid getting a ticket for illegally parking.

Well hottdamn.

I’m feeling better about 2010 already.

i resolve not to resolve, part I: how a few tweaks to your shit can make my shit better in 2010

I have determined that it is almost wholly useless to go about New Year’s resolutions in the traditional vein that has so occupied all of my Januarys for the last 29 years. In lieu of my epiphany, this year, I’ve elected to make a radical departure from society’s group-think, self improvement, new beginnings bullshit. I will demonstrate said departure by way of this two part series entitled: I Resolve Not to Resolve.

I’d like to spend today reflecting on some things/people/circumstances that had occasion to really piss me off in 2009. As such, I’d be much obliged if the following things/people/circumstances would consider the weight of their actions, and how these actions negatively affected my life. That’s right. Part I is about what everyone else can resolve to do about their own behaviors that I might have a more awesome 2010.

4 things/people/circumstances that brought fuckery to my 2009 and need to shape it up for 2010:

–hand to hood lady-

Hand to Hood lady, you are a dark horse in the race, as you only  made an appearance yesterday, 2 days before the start of the new year. Boy, did you make an impression. I have to commend you. I was entirely caught off guard when you slammed your hand down on the hood of my car in righteous indignation because it was situated a little in the crosswalk. Now, my immediate rolling down of windows, and exclamation of, “that’s how bitches get choked out!!” was a little unbecoming for a person of my relatively good breeding, I’ll grant you that. But as I’ve indicated, it is not my behavior that we’re modifying for the new year. It’s yours. So I need to know right now, straight up. Are you out of your fucking mind? Seriously. Don’t answer right away. Just let the question sink in and marinate. Are you out of your motherfucking mind? You are lucky I didn’t raise up out of that car and smack you squarely in your petulant mouth, the way you did my car. I could tell by your stunned demeanor that you took my outcry as a threat. But it wasn’t. It was a declarative statement of empirical fact. Slamming your hands down on the hood of random strangers’ cars in the middle of the day in a high traffic, high stress area like the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan area is EXACTLY how bitches get choked out. Read the paper. Watch the news. I’d wager slamming your hands down on the hood of random strangers’ cars in the middle of the day in a high traffic, high stress area like the Greater Washington DC Metropolitan area is the leading cause of choked out bitchedness, today. Check yourself, pedestrian. A choked out bitch is of little service to anybody.

–racist senior partner-

I don’t know why you continue to regale me with your tales of the glory days, Racist Senior Partner. The days when black people couldn’t get jobs in any positions outside of custodial work, but “loved, loved, loved” cleaning. I don’t know why you think it’s appropriate to convey to me how “overwhelmed” and “shocked” and “pleased” you are that so many people in my family were able to go to college. I’m made uncomfortable by your laughter at the fact that, “all of the clubs were open to people of all ethnicities and nationalities…except, of course, for blacks. Ha ha.” Look it—we don’t have to talk about my race, every time you override my cascade of lies and excuses and insist that I meet you at your office. Believe it or not, we CAN, in fact, just talk about the practice of law. As a matter of fact, if we could limit ALL of our discussions and interactions, period, and restrict the remaining few (preferably EMERGENCY situations) to conversations regarding little trifles like, “work” or “my fucking job,” I might be persuaded to set aside that hair-wrapped voodoo doll the shaman of my tribe in Africa sent along with my slave ancestors; you know, the one that has been passed down many generations, enduring the stains of chit’lin and collard greens juice,  and now pleasantly rests atop the monster sound system I have in my low-riding tricked out car, where I love to sit and blare my rap music.

(editor’s note for the daft* Sr. Partner has referenced “Africa,” “slavery,” “spicy ethnic food,” and “loud rap music” in several of our conversations.)

–sexy men who don’t want me-

Now, thankfully, to my knowledge, there was only one of y’all who came into my existence in 2009. But he was more than enough. I’m gonna be honest, the blow to my ego was a great one; a crippling one, in fact. Now, in hindsight, it was probably a necessary exercise as that thing had swollen to catastrophic proportions. Just the same, my heart still palpitates when I consider Captain Rejection’s unparalleled sexiness, and his as-subtle-as-a-boot-to-my-ass “no thank you.” So, any sexy men that I’m interested in, I need you all to shower me with your affections in 2010. No more of this “no” shit. Seriously. That’s complete rubbish. Feel free to convey these affections with such classics as, “the dinner invite,” “the innovative-think-outside-the-box-wild-date invite,” and my personal favorite, “the why-don’t-i-come-over-so-we-can-watch-some-movies invite.”

–metabolism-

Ummm…Metabolism? Are you depressed? I’m staging an intervention right now, Metabolism. I know that we haven’t always been the best of friends, but, lately, I can’t help but notice some strong hatred vibes coming from you. Do you remember, back in ’94 when we discussed my unwillingness to buy clothes in the double digits until my womb was thick with child? Remember that? I just need to know when the playbook changed, is all. I’m out there on the field with grit in my eyes and dirt under my fingernails, time eating away at the clock, all ready for an eagle swing right, and you’re callin’ fucking audibles. Get your shit, together, Metabolism. How are you gonna let a few late night pizza runs and a little bit of hard liquor come between us, Metabolism? It’s game time, right now, Metabolism! Get your face on! We’re within arm’s reach of 30, and I have 21 year olds questioning my youth, my sexy, and my overall spry-ness at every pass. I cannot effectively rally against them wearing Spanxx.

Metabolism, this morning, when I put on my slacks, I heard this woeful cry of agony. I looked around to see if I’d stepped on one of the dogs’ paws. I had not. I inclined my head to see if somewhere, off in the distance, a lone child, somehow separated from his mother, was weeping. There was no such child. Sadly, I looked down at my pants, overflowing with the coffers that once were my buxom backside. All that remained was a fat ass. Surrounding my fat ass like so much sausage casing, were the strained, wailing fibers of my very expensive 120 count sailor pants. My ass-fat compelled my inanimate clothes to speak, Metabolism. In 2010, a bit of hyper-speed mercy, if you please.

T-minus 24 hours, people.  Get it right. Get it tight.