Tag Archives: lifestyle

The Robbery

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The Robbery

I’m not sorry. That’s what I’ll tell the overworked police officer when he shows me the evidence he has on me after this.

I’m not sorry. That’s what I’ll tell the judge when he tries to lock me away for the crime of wanting what’s rightfully mine.

No, I’m not sorry.

I’d like to say I was anxious for what was to come, but my nerves were steely, my hands stone steady inside my black leather gloves. Given the circumstances, you’d believe I was a hardened criminal without a trace of humanity in my body. Maybe the second part of that impression was accurate but I was not a criminal- unless, of course, you count the social rap sheet I sported. In my life I had the audacity of being born poor and healthily melanated. To add insult to injury, I had an extra X chromosome and a human oven between my legs. All injection worthy offenses.

I wasn’t the only one with a hefty record, though. I was part of a team who’d banded together specifically for this night. If one of us was going to commit the perfect crime, she’d need the perfect accomplices.

Red One, who sat in the passenger’s seat reapplying her foundation, was born with parents who were only visitors here. They nearly gave her the chair for that offense. Red Two, polishing her aluminum bat in the back seat, made friends with the wrong people. Johnny and Jack were always there to show her a good time but weren’t too kind to her when she’d resurfaced from her blackouts and found she’d lost her home. To her left was Rookie who liked to dabble in games where she could play with her own team. She hadn’t been caught yet, but soon enough the closet she lived in would get a little too small. She’d be sentenced to life for that one.

No, none of us was sorry.

Can you blame us for pulling up to the curb at 3am, waiting to act on the small window of opportunity? One that we groomed each other to seize? All that was left now was to play the waiting game.

Wait. Start the car and bring it to a low rumble. Low beams on. Wait. Turn on the radio.

That’s not for you…

Turn the dial

Isn’t that a little ambitious…

Turn the dial.

That’s unrealistic…

Turn the dial yet again

You’re not talented enough for that…

Every station plays the same song.

Cut the music.

We had a few stops to make tonight and this was the very last one. We’d run up on our self-doubt, invaded the home of our fears and dumped them in the trunk of our beat up self-esteem issues. We’d dump the car later. It was only extra baggage.

I heard her short breaths behind my neck. Rookie was nervous. This was her first time and like any first-timer, she brought her self doubt along without taking the slugger to his temple like I’d told her. Said she didn’t have the stomach.

Rookie mistake.

Wait. Spot check exit points. Polish aluminum bat. Reapply foundation. Wait.

See, the rookie’s self-doubt didn’t go quietly. From the trunk, it sent muffled whispers in loving insults disguised as “mother”, “lover”, and “friend”. Poor girl was shaking in the back seat, making a habit of wiping her upper lip and brow every few seconds. But she told me she was ready and I wanted to believe her. She’d have to get herself together soon. It was time.

The plan was simple:

Set timer to two minutes. Cut engine. Mask on.

We sauntered our way to the massive double doors. Bats in hand, we were unbothered by robust chains on the handles. If we wanted opportunity, or any resource for that matter, we’d have to fight for it and keep a slow swagger in our steps as we showed up to claim it. One swing for practice and another to break the windows. We were a force as our army blazed the lobby. The faces of our hostages all looked the same, frozen in an expression of collective disgust and offense. Good. Stay mad.

No security or weapon could take us out as we stormed across the marble floors towards the safe. The funny thing about having such a notorious social rap sheet is that it basically makes you bulletproof. We quickened our pace, sprinting full speed towards the steel safe.

Only 45 seconds left on the timer. No more waiting. Black bag in hand.

We filled up the black bag with all it could carry. Rookie finally found her stride, slinging a black bag over her shoulder. Brute force seemed to be the only option against us, but a bat to the face can slow just about anyone down.

30 seconds left.

Make a quick escape out the back door.

Flip the pages and run my hands along the binding. Freedom in a leather hardback.

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Forget Me Not

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Forget Me Not

Trust the process. It only works if you allow it to. Trust the process, and the pain you feel now will be a distant memory. Trust the process. Adam had to keep reminding himself that beyond the automated doors in front of him, there was a chance he’d get to be normal. He couldn’t help but fidget with the clear band around his wrist with his name in bright holographic letters. He’d given every dime to his name and waited his turn on the ever expanding wait list for this. Tomorrow, he would be Sgt Harfield and the memory he held so close would disappear.Trust the process, he thought.

The blinking LED screen warned him he had less than 5 minutes before his appointment. He’d only heard rumors about the process and very few people who experienced it ever spoke of it again. Adam wanted to worry about the repercussions of his his mind kept picking at the same scar he’d gone into poverty trying to heal.

“Mr. Harfield?” he looked up at the attendant, a bit disgruntled.

“Ma’am,” he said

“I will see you now.”

He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. The bouncing  red ringlets springing up and down the attendant’s back kept his senses occupied as the two passed a  narrow passageway. At the end of the hall was a small room spilling over its brim in white lights. The space was only occupied by an all white recliner chair and a small table with a glass of cobalt blue liquid.

The nausea rolled through his stomach as Adam recognized the glass. Those brave enough to speak of the procedure always mentioned the blue glass that changed everything for them.

“Please have a seat,” the attendant said, forcing Adam to pry his stare away from the crisp glass. He sank into the frigid board of a chair he was given and awaited instructions. After a few moments of scribbling notes in her clipboard, the attendant spoke.

“My name is Penelope. I am version 9.2 of the NXJ android model and I am here to transition you through the process as efficiently as possible.” Adam blinked rapidly. He’d heard stories from his great grandfather about these beings and all of his great war stories defeating them, but he’d never come across one in his life.

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“The process,” she continued, “ lasts approximately 45 seconds and is 9 times safer than automobile travel, 11 times safer than most dental procedures and almost as safe as conventional oven use.” The droid paused, smiling at him with a blank expression in her eyes as if waiting for something.

Adam let out a sharp breath behind his half smile.

“That’s very funny ma’am,” he managed.

I guess they added a humor feature to make her seem more human- IT more human, he corrected, internally hating himself for the slip.

Penelope  reached over to his wrist and took his vitals.

“Are you certain you would like to continue?” He’d heard the questions before. At each stage of the procedure you had the option to change your mind. Adam clenched his jaw and responded, “ Yes, Ma’am”

“Vitals are within the normal anxiety level for specimen.” Penelope stuck two small patches to his temples. “We will proceed to phase one on the procedure. Please consume the liquid,” she gestured to the glass. Adam hesitated but took the icy drink in his hands. It tasted like nothing going down his throat and he felt no different afterwards.

“The following procedure,” the droid continued, “ will delete all emotional attachment to the selected memory. As previously discussed, 3 emotionally charged memories will also be extracted from the specimen to reach optimal psychological, emotional, and neurological equilibrium.”

“Yes Ma’am. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I think I know which ones I am willing to trade.”

The fine white skin of her forehead wrinkled.

“Confusion detected. The memories extracted are not the choice of the specimen, rather a choice of the algorithm. The algorithm programmed will select the memories to be extracted as it’s design is flawless, its coding unmatched by any technology in the field. After this point, all decisions will be made final and the procedure will begin. Do you wish to continue?”

Adam went stiff in his chair, his heart began to race deep beneath his ribs. Without any permission of his consciousness, his eyes gravitated to the glass on his left.. The beads of sweat across his brow rolled in cool strokes down his temples. His limbs went limp with the weight a a freight train. A flood of images overwhelmed him. Every Christmas and New Years in his memory raced past his very eyes. He thought of his very first time going hunting with his father and how excited he was to finally be old enough to tag along. He could see every trip to the valleys his family took every year. The meeting of his wife…. The green blouse she wore on their first date at the ice rink wrapped itself over her milky skin. Her wine red curls lost themselves in the silk fabric…. The birth of his daughter…. Every gap-toothed giggle… every swear word uttered behind the pout of her pink mouth.. Every breath…. Every counted breath….

“Stress levels above normal,” Penelope said, somewhere distant from Adam. “Do you wish to proceed?”

Adam had made his choice.

For All the Fat Girls

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For All the Fat Girls

This one’s for the fat girls…
For the girls, like me, who have had people poke their nose on our plates. This is for all the girls who’ve had people judge our lives like we put out an ad on craigslist for a second opinion. This one’s for the girls who would rather chew glass than go shopping because of how hard to find something that actually fits. I’m talking about the 38 DD and bigger, size 16 and sexy club. I’m calling out to all my “smile politely and endure unsolicited dietary advice from a stranger” fat girls. That’s right! It’s a roll call for all the stretch marks and cellulite fat girls. The not so tiny tummy and thunder thigh fat girls.
This is for all the ones who, like me, have heard all the criticism before- in both whispers behind our backs and  in front of people we know. I’m speaking up for all the “try to take a joke as your grandma critiques your weight at Christmas dinner” fat girls and the “get asked condescending questions when you eat” fat girls.
Because, you see, I’m no average fat girl. This fat girl has an answer for all of those pressing questions.
Question:“Isn’t that a lot of food to be eating?”

Answer: Isn’t that a lot of your business you should be minding?

Question: I’m worried you’ll catch diabetes

Answer: You should be worried about catching these hands

Question:“How does sex even work with you?”

Answer: Ask your man if you need a road map.

See I’m different breed of fat girl. I’m the “put you in our place” type of fat girl. I’m a “take no shit” kind of fat girl. Just ask the poor turd who tried to Snapchat me eating while he and his girlfriend laughed at me. Poor thing didn’t have a drop of color in his face or a pea shaped ball in his sack when I got in his face. That’s right, I’m standing up for ALL the fat girls. The “put a pillow on my lap when I sit down” fat girls, the “I love this game but won’t play” fat girls, the “take a selfie from the neck up” fat girls, the “you’re cute for a big girl” fat girls and especially the invisible “who’s your friend?” fat girls. I have been all of these fat girls at one point in my life. I was even the “don’t eat in public” fat girl once.
This one’s for my fat girls who know what it’s like to be insulted with “tough love”. With the rising epidemic or heart disease and diabetes, you can’t blame people for wanting to help. But let me tell you why the “tough love “ act does more harm than good. Loving your body is a journey. For all my depressed fat girls and my genetically predisposed fat girls you know what I mean. Don’t you think we’ve tried the low carb diet? The Zone diet? The south beach diet? The “it’s all about self control” diet? The not eating after 7 diet? The only eating fruit diet? The eating absolutely nothing diet? The eating everything in sight then throwing it all up diet? Believe me, we’ve tried. The one underlying factor in each of these is self-loathing and trust me, we don’t need anyone’s help to get more of that. This one’s for my insecure fat girls, who have been yo-yo dieting since the age of twelve. I’m the type of fat girl that will eat my Lorenzo’s extra cheese slice with a classy finger in the air for anyone with even a breath to say about it. This is a call to action! II want every fat girl to be:
The “turn heads when I walk” fat girl
The “I’m not pretty for a big girl, I’m pretty period!” fat girl
The “vivacious and lively” fat girl
The happy fat girl
The unapologetic fat girl.
Love yourself enough to be happy. Love yourself enough to be healthy. Most importantly, love yourself no matter what anyone says. I’ve learned this in a very hard way. It’s why I will forever be proud to be a fat girl. A curvy, thick, slick- mouthed fat girl.

Who can blame Irma….

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Who can blame Irma….

The funny thing about Florida is that it only really has two settings when it comes to whether: Hell hot or hurricane. Today seems to be masterful combination of the two as we await for Irma’s arrival. Kind of makes you long for the old Florida before the madness. Just a few days ago, there was no breeze but plenty of sunlight- sunlight that would gladly remind you that nothing is safe from the 90 degree heat. The air is humid, moist and a bit hard to breathe. It makes you feel like you’re finally suracing from deep under water, only to shut you down and sink you five feet further. Florida. A place where it rains on one side of the road and not the other, where it pours for literally 5 minutes then blesses you with sunshine for the rest of the day. What a bitch. She makes you think she’s doing you a favor by giving you sunshine, but really it’s a cruel way to heat the air she has already moistened and made difficult to inhale. What a bitch. Maybe I’m a pessimist who doesn’t like sunshine or flowers. Actually, I am in fact a pessimist who hates sunshine and flowers. But before you gather the mob and pitchforks allow me to explain. I didn’t want to be here. Ever. Florida seems to have an alluring nature about it that never quite appealed to me. Most will ignore the flying roaches, mother nature’s mood swings and the bloodsuckers with wings in favor of Disneyland and vacation homes. Let us just ignore the fact that Disney is overrrated and unnecessarily expensive and that the US’s largest pedophile population resides in the sunshine state.

These things aside, truly the weather only bothers me for one particular reason. It is too personal. Even mother nature weeps violently in the summer months, tries her hardest to cover her sorrows in sunshine. She licks her wounds in glowing light to compensate for her human moments. She only makes things so much worse.  In her Fall months she whips and howls along the coasts and warm waters of the ocean. Destruction and terror are her only path as she hides her pain. She is ripped of her resources, leaving scars in her body only to continue to care for her abusers. She is left bled dry with gashes on her skin. It sounds too familiar… maybe I’m just overthingking things. I suppose I cannot blame Mother Nature for her cries. Maybe we’re too much of the same. What a bitch.

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Haven Says: Safe Sex, Paychecks

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Haven Says: Safe Sex, Paychecks

When you’re a twenty something year old woman, the world has a funny way of telling you what the next step in your life should be. It seems that your sexuality is always up for a new marketing strategy. Can you be kind of slutty if I have an education? Is it more acceptable to wear fishnets if you have a law degree? Should you be very conservative and avoid scandal altogether? No. Don’t think too hard. Just stay pretty and let the experts tell you how you can be desirable.

A room full of eager faced interns, ready to make a good first impression on the boss await anxiously in a conference room. You stand naked on the massive table waiting for what is next to come. You find yourself surrounded by faces named “mom”, “teacher”, “pastor”, and “friend”. A stout oversized man walks through the door, cigar in hand and a mean mug on. You’re the product. You are only valuable if others think you are. So what’s the tagline? What’s the slogan that will attach the most amount of value on you as a woman?

  • “Modest in life makes a good wife!”

What genius! Because clearly if you practice modesty you’re aiming to be a good wife one day. The correlation is undeniable. Let us ignore your own ability to choose. Not to mention that if you’re not modest, you don’t care about your husband. Noted.

  • “Sex for him, at his whim”

Another strike of societal genius. Alas, there is a strict guideline to establishing your value, and sexual deviance is not allowed. It is imperative to your value that you only practice acceptable forms of sex in a relationship or in marriage. Your own sexual drive or urge is nonexistent and only exists if “he” wants it. It must ALWAYS exist if “he” wants it. Let’s disregard that he too has self-autonomy and doesn’t always want it. It is vital that no one find out you are following this rule. Keep a pretty face in public and give all you can. What he wants, whenever he wants. Dually noted.

  • “Vanilla givings, happy living””

The golden rule! You are only allowed a small spectrum of acceptable sexual behaviors ONLY within the parameters of a marriage or committed relationship. You are allowed no urges of your own, or plastic/glass friends in your nightstand. You are not allowed to be sexual outside of the predetermined circumstances. Let us once again disregard the magic of becoming your own personal DJ or the curiosity of having “shes” instead of “hes” take the role of the guest star.

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It doesn’t matter that you stand two feet away from them. Your life and future are for sale. You are naked. You are silent. You are completely uninvolved. You must stand still, smile and await judgement. You will not be wanted by the public if I’m not in the right packaging and as long as you do exactly as the slogan says, you are valuable. So you stand silently, awaiting their brilliant marketing expertise on what will make me worthy. As if what you choose to happen between your legs has anything to do with the fact that you are a person worthy of respect. As if the only merit you have is to be seen as desirable. Well here are a few slogans from yours truly.

Haven says:

GREAT SEX AND PAYCHECKS.

CELIBATE AND KILLIN IT

BACK SHOTS AND CASH DROPS

NO SEX AND PROTESTS

AMAZING Os, AND CEOs

It’s amazing that the concept of sexuality as it pertains to you is a conversation that includes so many people. A dialogue when it’s meant to be a monologue. Let’s not be unreasonable. The opinions of others count. They just won’t dictate my life until those opinions pay to keep my lights on.

 

Perfume Sale!

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Perfume Sale!

My pessimism should be extracted, collected and bottled up to be sold to the masses. Honestly, the amount of disdain I had for all of the foolery I put up with in life could have launched an entire fragrance line. It would be sold in major department stores nationwide and the blond lady in an all black power suit would be ecstatic to sell it (just like the employee handbook says). Her plastered smile could nearly shatter her face as she works to earn her commission and entice you to buy.

“Oooo, good choice,” she’ll compliment as you waver your eyes towards a hot pink bottle on the lower shelf. “That one’s a little strong. It’s called ‘Who the hell asked you?’ This one is more appropriate for formal occasions like when someone says what you should do with your body, or when someone is compelled to tell you how to live your life.” She’ll laugh delightedly as she hands you the bottle for a test spray. Then she’ll lead you to the most expensive bottle that has been marked 40% off! She claims it to be her favorite of all!

“You’ll love this fragrance!” she’ll say. “ It’s called “Kiss my Ass”. This is the signature fragrance, made for all occasions.Suitable events include, but are not limited to: When customers at your job treat you like you’re not a person, when you’re bullied because of your looks, being told you’re not good enough, general doubt from your support system, and many more!”

Well Sharon, I think I’ll buy all of the bottles you’ve got. I’ll be very subtle, as I know that a lot of people are off put and often intimidated by such strong fragrances. I’ll start with a base coat of “I love me” and douse myself in a bottle of “Fuck it” just to piss them all off.

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