Some shit is just gonna fuck you up

silly goose

I used to think that I knew things
that I could figure things out.

I’m beginning to understand that life can’t be rushed,
that grief feels like being in the middle of a thunderstorm some days
and the dead of winter the next.
So cold you can see your own breath.

Someone said once that they thought that I hated being alone,
easy, that’s what’s wrong with you.
Maybe you’re right. Alone is the fucking worst.

I’ve started doing all of this extra stuff for my dog,
like hide treats in her dog food and taking her on midnight strolls.
I don’t even care that she naps on all of my new pillows.

That’s why you obsessive dog people are like that,
everyone want’s somebody to love.
Ohhh we just need somebody to love.

 

Spotify’s Got Me All F**ked Up

silly goose, your body

As many of you know this weekend was a very special weekend. I realized that I had a free Spotify premium membership just waiting for me out in the ethers. I promptly, filled out the necessary information and like the resurrection of Christ himself, the sweet nectar that is my old Spotify playlist has RISEN! Can I get an amen!

[If this is all some foreign tech babble that you don’t understand. You’re life has no meaning. I mean okay, so it probably has meaning but you are barely living. At the very least you need to get the free version of Spotify, which is the Limewire of this decade. I have been trudging though the perils of the free version for the past six months. Six long terrible months. No, I’m not being dramatic.]

Here’s what I wasn’t ready for. The onslaught of songs that have now become so terribly sad because my life circumstances have dramatically changed.

Music that you continually listen to through life changes and expanses of time evolve with you. That smooth love song that you and what’s his face used to grove to in the living room, well now that’s the song that you shake your fine single behind to when making dinner. All is well.

But those songs that you haven’t touched in you don’t know how long, those will jump right out of your ear buds and sucker punch you in the gut. Damn. I would like to send a personal f-you to Damien Rice, Citizen Cope, Bill Withers, Fiest, Paolo Nutini, and Joss Stone herself. You can shove Super Duper Love up your arse.

This isn’t news to any of you who have weathered the storm of heart break or what you thought was heart break in your teenage years, Coldplay knew just how to say it didn’t they. Our brains are hard-wired to connect music with our longterm memory, speaking of being able to recite every Will Smith album ever from heart… adding that to my resume right meow.

The hippocampus (that little bitch) is likely the culprit here. It mediates both memory formation and emotions. So here we are sobbing between Amos Lee songs. I’ve got bad news for those recovering from crushed dreams and the promise of forever love even patients with very advanced Alzheimer’s can go into deep emotional recall at the drop of one Ludacris song. Okay, so What’s Your Fantasy probably isn’t bumpin’ on the dementia wing, but ya know.

 

 

Saying What You Really Feel

silly goose, social awareness

Me and an anonymous person that I know, were exchanging emails today. She’s always articulate and hilarious regardless of how dark or upturned her corner of the world happens to be that day.

Preamble: It’s always fucking Mercury isn’t it. Let’s just nuke it out of the solar system. I ‘aint got time for this ish.

Kimpossible shared that:
Mercury is in retrograde, I’m hallucinating little green men in the middle of the night and my skin has more in common with alligators than human beings. I’M FUCKING WONDERFUL THANKS FOR ASKING.

Regpopolis responded:
No flipping way. I legit just gave the same speech to myself on the drive to work today, it goes a little something like this:

Mercury is in retrograde, it was a Pieces full moon— what in the fuck does that mean, sounds tragic enough– my baby literally shit the bed yesterday, I’m a full time maid fighting the funk from hell, my boyfriend is dying, my dog spite shit on our brand new carpet, and everyday I cry at my job. Ohhhh and on Monday I start school again.

Okay, Reg, check yourself. Mantra: you will get a job offer from Starbucks today. You will get a job offer from Starbucks today.

This is my uncensored life right now.

And then on the way home from work after a surprisingly decent day (that was either because A) I am now taking anxiety meds 30 min before I arrive every day or B) I had a full blown life breakdown to the intern on Friday including crying and she probably told my boss that I’m a sensitive little bitch, which if fine because it meant less fire and brimstone today, so #winningfornow) any-who at this stop light on the way home I had to talk my self down:

Reagon, It could be worse: you could be a Syrian refugee, you could live in Baghdad, you have never actually been involuntarily starving. Your basic needs are met. You are okay. Your basic needs are met. You are okay. This could be much worse.

That’s the place. That’s the space that I have to live in right now because I’m in full blown panic. I told J this morning that right now is literally the most anxious and emotionally unwell that I have ever been in my life. And I’ve seen some shit (again, not bombs falling on my head shit, but you know white girl shit).

Here’s something that is keeping me going (and has been since I learned about it). Adjustment Disorder. It’s one of the most commonly used “diagnosis” in therapy because most therapists don’t want a stigmatizing diagnosis following their patients around. It takes on average 6 weeks to process an “adjustment”. So when your life gets all backwards and inside out and you CAN’T FUCKING DEAL, 6 weeks later (pending that there’s not an onslaught of other horrendous things going on) you will feel better. And you will have moved on to something else, hopefully that something else is much sunnier.  Six weeks. We can do six weeks.

* I feel it important to note that I have been shoving my fingers as far down my auditory canals as possible, and scrolling past all of the atrocities being committed (MURDERS, IT’S MURDER) against black men, women and children in the past (well forever) but specifically in the past few days, because I can’t deal with reality right now. However it is not lost on me that if I were born in a different body that I may very well be gunned down for absolutely no reason at all, even if I have my hands in the air and even if I am disabled. So, once more it is ALL RELATIVE*

Making Peace With The Fact That You Look Like A Video ..Girl..

silly goose, your body

My back side came to be in the 8th grade. Not that it wasn’t disproportionate before hand, Ev is going to be blessed in all of the same ways I can see it now, but puberty did not spare me. I remember walking up the stairs in junior high and a boy gasping out loud ohh my God who is that?! I turned around and he was shocked little ol’ Reggy from the block looked like JLo from the waist down. None of us were ready. 

I’ve had a love hate relationship with my body as a whole and my whole ass for the better part of my life. By the grace of God and the help of  my friends I have largely stopped waging war against my body in the past four-ish years. I’m still working on fully embracing it. Yet still times pop up when I surprise myself, shall I share…

Yesterday, on the international holiday of woman stuffing them selves into strappy contraptions, lace and satin, I abided.  A few days prior J and I had perused through the negligee department of our local Dillards. He pointed at all things minuscule and see through while I held up floor length opaque frocks suitable for Grandma. At one point a passer-by laughed out loud at us. I reminded often, “Jesus Christ, Julius I’m somebody’s mother”. Truth. But the truth is also that millions of mothers on this planet are workin’ it. Being a mother in no way diminishes your sexuality if you don’t let it. My reality is it just seems so silly to dress like a stripper (yes, this is subjective) regardless of the holiday, company, or sobriety.

In defense of pubic hair, cotton granny panties, sweat pants and extra large t-shirts. 
-Google gynecological health. Hair is for a reason.
-Silks, satins, Lycra and all things wedged up your butt crack do not breath and vaginas need to breathe.
-No body wants to sleep with under wires jabbing, panties creeping, garters and thigh highs. And let’s be real after the fun I’m going to pass out like a brown bear going down for winter hibernation.
-The realest of the real reasons, the pomp and circumstance lasts about 5 seconds. Then we get stripped naked any way. Let’s do the math: 15 minuets exfoliating, shaving and plucking. 20 minutes figuring out how the G-damn hookey contraptions work, 5 minutes getting your winged eyeliner just right- we know how every man loses his shit over that perfect angled tip… 5 more minutes tucking and sucking and doing 360s in the mirror, fuck gotta readjust at least one of the straps and bobbles. That’s a total of 45 minutes for 5 seconds of glory. I’m no mathematician but God damn.

So yesterday because I’m a selfless person and sympathetic to the cries of, “You just don’t understand what men want” (I may have asserted the aforementioned arguments a time or two) I strapped my self in. It took just as long as I thought. And then I turned a round. HOLY FLIPPING LORD I literally looked like a centerfold for some B rated nearly-porn magazine. I’ve got booty for days. Not news. But still somehow shocking in the right rig.

There’s some bizarre disconnect in seeing your business casual, mom hair cut self so sexualized (for me,  if this isn’t your struggle then good for you sister let’s hear your raawwwrrrr). I don’t know if it’s easier to walk into a room where the spectator is the love of your life and one of the silliest people you know or if I would prefer a total stranger. It’s hard to embody a persona to fit your body. I did a good job of not taking myself remotely seriously. Because I just, couldn’t.

So, who won? No one and both of us. J learned that the impossible was a possibility. And I learned that I have to go through this entire ritual more. Not for him or any one else but for me. Because I’m so damn used to looking at my self covered in dog fur, tussled hair and ratty pajamas that my body in… well fitting… attire looks utterly foreign. Last night I literally looked in the mirror and didn’t remotely recognize the girl woman before me. Even if I look like one of those rap guy’s girl friends and that’s not who I am in my heart of hearts I need to make friends with that reality. All of me is mine. 

This morning I woke up trying to make heads or tails of all of this. So I put on leggings and I wore them as pants. Not because I love that look, but because I have to get used to seeing alllllllll of my ass in it’s full glory instead of tucking it into something in hopes that it won’t look so obscene. Hi my name is Reagon, and I have a ginormous beautiful full derriere and I’m not apologizing for it anymore. If it shocks you, entices you or repulses you well that’s your business not mine. I’m doing ALL of me from here on out.

Rawwrrrrrr, and love.

 

 

the wonder of you by julius

Love, silly goose
Tonight on Valentines day proper I lay in bed semi-smoothered in 6 year old, 75 pounds of dog and enough stuffed animals to fill a trophy den *the cover photo was taken in my bedroom, truth*.  Everyone is here except for my man. We did Valentines last night, the details of which I’ll spare all of us. So, tonight it’s just me and an inbox full of so many lovely and hilarious exchanges between me and what used to be my internet boyfriend…. yeah that’s what I called you.
It has been concluded yet again that both of us are absolutely insane, excruciatingly funny and as in love with words as we are each other.
I wrote J in mid May last year:

I hope that you get drunk enough that you write me some crazy metaphor riddled email.

I love you!
He responded, probably completely sober:
oh yeah! my baby asks for terrible drunken poetry. damnit thats what shes gonna get!!
the wonder of you by julius
i wake and wonder
pause to reflect
on the wonder of you
it must be a dream, i think
life is cruel, it really does stink
true love, harrumph, harrumph
it’s a bad movie, a withered old fairy tale,
like the matrix, alice’s wonderland or maybe even the holy grail
it’s marketing,
a cheap magic trick
a loser’s game played out
with cheap greeting cards
and teenage flicks
its a fantasy don’t you see?
one that everyone clings to
but no one really believes
at least that’s what i thought
but then came you
and you know what?
fuck the wachoski brothers
and lewis carroll can eat a dick too
hollywood can kiss all of my black ass
and save some room for hallmark too
now i believe in one thing
it’s not magic, not a fairy tale, it’s true
it’s as natural as the warmth of the sun
and as real as the moon…it is simply you
i believe in us
i believe in you
and that’s all I need
I love you baby
(You may now smile and clap…or groan haha)
This may be the love poem to take all love poems.
xoxo

The Essence of Man. Guest Post from Mr. Julius Williams

Love, silly goose

brut_old_look

Advisory: If any of these products are in your possession, RUN

My dearest family and friends,

I come to you today with a heavy heart. But I feel that I owe a public apology to my friends, family and community. Tonight, I had a life changing experience. As my girlfriend and I were enjoying a quiet Sunday evening, we were both overcome with the most egregious, intense funk that I have ever had the unfortunate displeasure to experience. It smelled like a mixture of old man, dead fish, vinegar and bath salts to which my girlfriend exclaimed “ I know that funky smell!”

We raced through the house trying to find whatever demonic possession had taken hold in our happy home when I noticed a peculiar green slim dripping down the bathroom sink. Upon further review, it became clear that Beelzebub had not in fact began his 1000 year reign of terror on earth in our bathroom but instead my bottle of Brut had tipped over and had been slowing leaking for hours.

Although on the positive side, the colors I’ve been seeing for hours are pretty amazing and I now longer have to use my nose hair trimmer because the hairs have been permanently singed away I must confess that I had no idea what I was putting all of you through.

Do you have any idea how much good aftershave costs? I could have bought a house for cash with all the money I’ve spent over the last twenty years on colognes and after shaves. So when I saw the Walgreen’s special for 4.99 I thought I had finally overcome (halleyooyer!).

But I have seen the light. No human being, animal or earthy spirit (and I do believe this funk crossed dimensions) should have to smell that smell. So I humbly apologize to all of you.

In case there are other men out there who have followed down the same dark path, I beseech you, stop now. If not for yourself, for your loved ones and for your community. I’m pretty sure that the ingredients in Brut violate some environmental and/or humanitarian laws. I will be following up with the EPA and the UN in due course.

If any of you wish to help me banish this scurge from the depths of hell, I am starting a fundraising kickstarter to build awareness. You can find our webpage (when it’s up and running) at http://www.geeeyoooooddaaayuumthatstinks.wtf.com/pleasejesushelpus.

Thank you for your support.

-Julius Williams, Jr.

Surprise: I’m getting married and having a baby!!!!!!!!!!!!

domestication, Love, silly goose

Well, technically, no. I mean not yet. I mean, maybe not ever. I mean I grew a pair and confronted my boyfriend in an email (I’m an adult) saying,

“Hey bro, just so you know getting married and possibly having another child is in my life plan and for the record I’m not getting any younger. You down?”

To which he replied. 

“I’ll move out”.

Ohh. Shit. Well, that didn’t really go to plan now did it.

For the record this is how that conversation is supposed to go: 

-Complicated female creature that loves you and is trying to be honest about her life intentions that have been drug out into the light by this little thing called “a new year” and the chest crushing pressure of society and all of the things right in this world to itemize and prioritize her life says:

“Heyyyyyyyy, I know that we just got in a semi-huge fight, so naturally I’m going to use it as an opportunity to say all of the things that I normally would never say to your face. No I’m not drunk. So do you wanna spend the rest of your life and the eternal afterlife with me and at some point in the near-ish future *even though I look like I’m 13 my eggs are nearing the 30 years old mark* wanna put a baby in me? I mean who doesn’t want a baby… with me, right? So yay or nay?”

-Handsome, charming, temporarily in an asshole trance but suddenly shaken into a deeply moved spiritual and love filled place boyfriend replies:

“Okay, sure. I mean yes. More than yes, absolutely! Let me work up some very thoughtful and romantic way to propose to you. We’ll streamline the whole wedding planning thing. It’ll be simple, elegant and expedited. Right after we’ll start making babies. Well, probably just one but hey you’re a level headed human being completely above the sabotage of your hormones so I’ll let you make that call, you always know what’s best.
P.S. I’m sorry for everything that happened earlier, again you’re right (I really can’t tell you that enough), I love you darling. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ll be home straight away to reassure you all of the above mentioned things to your face and I’m brining wine, so that the next passionate and love filled email that you send me can actually be because you’re drunk.”

But things never go my way. I have absolutely no idea why. It just doesn’t make sense.

I’m accepting, flowers, cards, heartfelt condolences and these:

unicorn

Couldn’t hurt.

The silver lining, I like to send J emails of really horrid weddings that I see online and say things like, “Hey babe, I love you so much that I’ll let you wear a mad hatter outfit to the alter”. He never replies. But he doesn’t reply no. And when I whisper about it in his ear right before he falls asleep, he says, “Ohh what you’ve set a date?” I think he might be being sincere, like he really just wants me to take some initiative. Yeah?

Right after our “pillow talk” I started whining about how we needed a kitten, a puppy, 2 sea stars and a baby (those are all real things that I really really really need and they need me, especially the sea stars). He said, “Oh what are we just going to go pick up a baby? Maybe we should get a red headed one?”
It’s like he knows that I can’t stand red hair (don’t get all hurt and offended I’m sure that your red hair is to die for).

So, in conclusion. I really think that he’s starting to come around.

J, I love you. Eh? No? You didn’t like this one? Whoops. Really big smile. Does that work?

All of the comments that I didn’t leave on Facebook today, in paragraph format.

silly goose

I’m back from my-life-was-in-shambles-and-I-couldn’t-make-coherent thoughts-much-less-write-something-entertaining-hiatus. Get excited.
But here’s the new problem. I’ve got all of this pent up nonsensical commentary and I don’t know how to moderate it. So, I’m going to just gonna lay it on ya, here’s what Facebook made me think today:

Lawrence Kids– technically adults that chose to behave like children: Jesus H Christ. Can we all just stop having the I’m the biggest hipster competition and the other half of you can stop acting like you’re hardened criminals. PLEASE.

Seconds first. Here’s the thing. You are from Lawrence Fucking Kansas. You did not grow up in the ghetto, maybe a trailer park, but not the ghetto. I grew up in that town just about as poor as possible and wasn’t emotionally wrecked by it. I was young and unsupervised, it wasn’t scary or traumatizing, sorry gigs up dude. Yes, the effects of poverty, socioeconomics, race and opportunity are vast and varied. But, you grew up and live in a beautiful place full of tons of initiatives and people that will bend over absolutely backwards to keep your life out of the gutter. Stop making that CHOICE.

Despite a few very gruesome murders in that town as of late (da fuck?) being part of a “violent culture” is of your own making and choosing. Fuck your street code. Fuck your “you don’t know me’s”. Fuck all of the things that you are doing that makes you feel like a big tough strong man because we all know you. You are from a small privileged place in this world. Do not expend your energy creating a parallel existence full of hatred, crime and being a ‘thug’. It’s not cute and you’re fooling any one, plus your mama is embarrassed.

And now the other half. Seriously I have watched the internet devolution of way to many of you normal nuclear family having, higher educated Lawrencians dive head first down the hipster tunnel, so hard that you broke your neck. (“Hey babe, what’s the opposite of evolution…… Christianity?” That’s real life. but really I’m pretty sure devolution isn’t a word, but I do what I want 🙂 )

hipster lawrence
The issue isn’t all of you boys wearing skinny jeans and Toms it’s the ones of you that decided that you are so incredibly beyond the main stream that you’ve chosen to be a homeless drug addicted drunk. You’ve utilized your exceptional free public education all over card board signs making quippy references to how your homeless and proud now please don’t pity me but give me your change….

Well fuck you. Being homeless is real, over 2,600 people in Lawrence are homeless. That includes an ever increasing number of single women with babies and children that have no where to go. Veterans. Mentally ill people. People who have fallen on extremely hard times and have no other options.  People that are not 20-something year old males that are “lost” in life and decided that living on the street or being a “traveler” was more exciting than working a minimum wage job. Maybe you’re right. But you know what isn’t that exciting. Hepatitis A, B or C. Being a drain on a way over stretched social welfare system and charities that are dedicated to helping those in need. It’s not amusing that you went to rehab. I don’t think that your mug shot is humorous profile pic. It’s fucking sad. You are fucking sad. Be better. The world doesn’t owe you shit and you’re not a victim. You choose this life be accountable.

In other news: 

Facebook: What the face?

I don’t appreciate it when you haven’t gone all Taylor Swift lyrics about your break up and more so about your DIVORCE! Seriously. Your lack of antics is really killing my social media stalking. And you know I like to be in the loop. It really takes a lot of time out of my day when all of the sudden up pops a picture of you and Joey…? Joey? What happened to Bill. I swear to god that you were just MARRIED to Bill. But now it’s all Merry Christmas from Joey, the dogs and I. I feel like you owe all of your vaguely friends (me) the courtesy of at least some documentation of the break up and the acquisition of a new significant other. I mean we’ll take an instagram pic, a slightly referential meme or heaven forbid a publicized Facebook relationship status. Throw us a bone 🙂

Yesterday, in real life, I was eavesdropping on two people discussing a project at a coffee shop. The older gentleman was on a rant about how “kids these days”… yup my 75 year old grandpa is on Facebook… think that their relationships on the Facebook are real.

Uh, well now I’ve got to disagree. They are real. They are different than conventional let’s meet at the local pub relationships. But social media relationships look like all sorts of different things to different people. Let’s not chalk the whole thing up to a fantasy land. Is it a lens into the lives that we wouldn’t normally be privy to? Yes. Is it a forum for people to share the array of their human existence with each other for better or for worse? I think so. Is it detrimental? Maybe. Is it entertainment? I think so. Is it a way for the world to feel smaller? For us to share information? Is it a way for the lonely to feel connected? Heard? Is it a real connection? A real community? I would argue yes.

To be honest I wish that we all still lived in small villages. I’m nostalgic for a time and place where I/we felt like we belonged to the physical place that we live. That’s fleeting. Is it the fault of the internet? Is social media a reaction to urbanization? Is it a side effect? I don’t know.

One day when I’m not so lazy and already don’t have 50 tabs open full of things to read I’ll cite some real research on the power of social connection even when it’s not in person. Until then you can disagree, I guess.

Blurred Visions

silly goose, social awareness
This mornin’ I drove back from dropping Ev off at school and scoured the radio for something listenable. Turns out if Mariachi music isn’t your cup o’ tea then your left with 1 questionable rock station, a semi-oldies station and a NPR that makes KCUR sound like a daily parade for your ears. So I settled on the greatest hits station. Because this was playing:
No freedom til we’re equal 
Damn right I support it 

Now I’m not going to pretend to be savvy to pop culture. Last time I checked Mclemore was getting drafted 🙂 Seriously. And the first time I heard Thrift Shop was from the mouth of a 5 year old. I’m not cool and that’s okay. But this song made me stop the dial. It sounded like semi-spoken word poetry. I just felt a sense of pride that main stream-cool kid-culture is getting something positive shoved down their auditory canals for once.Then Blurred Lines came on. And I turned it up far too loud for 9 in the morning. My booty shook under my seat belt. ‘Cause I’m an animal baby??? Allright. So I think the lyrics are fucked up. He had me until he was going to rip her ass in half. Seriously where is your mother? I do think it’s groovy and I wish I could unknow the lyrics. Yada yada yada google that viral post about how feminists want Robin Thicke to die. They probably have a point. I’m just not really surprised.

I mean I guess it’s good that people have found a cause. But where were they in 1999 when Sisco was bestoying this gem http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oai1V7kaFBk upon us.
Let me see your thong…. seems pretty appropriate for a junior high dance. Or hows about my good friend Sir Mix A Lot? I mean really Baby Got Back was more of a celebration of my backside than degrading. So let’s be real. Sometimes songs that we like, okay really like and most importantly inspire us to find a unsuspecting boy and grind our butts all over don’t have the most savory lyrics. Am I okay with that? I don’t know. Do I support an old skool dance party whenever possible? Sure do.

Now what I’m really angry about was this. In celebration of Beyonce’s 32nd b-day they had a Destiny’s Child/Beyonce marathon and this shiz came out of my speakers:

Let me help you
Take off your shoes 
Untie your shoestrings
Take off your cufflinks (yeah) 
Do ya wanna eat boo (yeah)
Let me feed you
Let me run your bathwater 
Whatever you desire…i’ll supply ya
Sing you a song, turn my game on 
I’ll brush your hair… put your du-rag on 
You want a foot rub (yeah) 
You want a manicure 
Baby I’m yours I wanna cater 2 u boy’


Let me cater 2 you 
Cause baby this is your day 
Do anything for my man 
Baby you blow me away 
I got your slippers, 
your dinner, 
your dessert
And so much more 
Anything you want 
Let me cater 2 u 
Inspire me from the heart
Can’t nothing tear us apart
You’re all I want in a man

Baby I’m happy your home 
Let me hold you in my arms 
I just want to take the stress away from you 
Makin sure that i’m doin my part (oh)
Boy is there something you need me to do (oh)
If you want it (i got it) 
Say the word (i will try it)
I know whatever I’m not fulfilling
another woman is willing (oh)
Im gonna fulfill you my body and spirit 

I promise ya i’ll keep myself up 
remain the same chick,you fell in love with
I’ll keep it tight,I’ll keep my figure right
I’ll keep my hair fixed,keep rocking the hottest outfits
When you come home late, tap me on my shoulder i’ll roll over
Baby I heard you Im here to serve you if it’s love you need 
to give it is my joy, all I want to do is cater to you boy 

Are you flipping kidding me ladies??? “I know whatever I’m not fulfilling another woman is willing.” “I’ll keep it tight, I’ll keep my figure right.” Are are fucking kidding. Is anyone else outraged? 

Maybe there’s a totally double standard here. I’m open to that debate. But I can brush off a dude telling me to shake my ass but a fellow group of women lamenting about all of the things that they have to cater to their man so they don’t run off and get fulfilled by another woman. Well fuck that dude. Be my guest. Run off. ‘Cause you’re gonna have to have sunshine coming out of your ass before I’m going to untie your shoes, brush your hair, run your bath water, make you dessert and “serve you if it’s love you need”. I’m angry that these words even exist. 

It’s one thing to listen to degrading words come from a mans mouth. But it’s another for women to say it to them selves and set that standard. 

Sorry bro, I ‘aint Beyonce, Kelly or Michelle. I’m also not an animal.  But I could use my bath water run. Any takers? 

To their credit they did write Bills, Bills, Bills… now there’s something that I can identify with 🙂 

*vintage post from when Blurred Lines was news*