When it rains, it pours. . .

Hi all!

So I've started going back to "The Word on Wednesdays", a weekly, open mic night put on by UCLA's Cultural Affairs Commission (CAC). I used to go A LOT during my Freshman year, but during my second year, after I got diagnosed with the vocal cord polyp and GERD, I had to abruptly stop. But I've missed going and have so much of my writing that I'd like to share. Here's a poem I recently wrote last week that I've been eager to get out there into the open:

"Society" - February 2014

I’m tired of beating myself up

and trying to modify everything I aspire to be.

How about turning it around

and beating up society?

I’m perfectly innocent,

but they act like I’m a criminal

just cause I’m content,

I’m comfortable with who I am.

Just cause I can’t conform

to what? What’s conventional; the norm?

F*ck that, I will not repent

Just cause I’m nontraditional.

I am an original.

I saw a picture on my Facebook newsfeed

while I was carelessly scrolling along

it had the worst advice that I’ve ever seen

it said “keep calm and carry on”

but excuse me

why should we when everything is wrong?!

No, I refuse, that goes against all of my hopes and dreams,

but while still on Facebook, I saw, yet, another meme

it read “don’t keep calm, go change the world”

and that’s exactly what I’m trying to do with this spoken word.

Cause as our foremothers swore

with their immortal folklore

The PenDragon needs no sword

for its weapon is the word.

And just like Audre Lorde conceives  

“Poetry is Not a Luxury”

and to me, this is a firm belief

Because she’s right, it’s not, it is a necessity

And it flows through me

Just like electricity

For within my poetry

lies my legacy

it will continue to live on

long, long after me.

If I can use my inspiration, innovation to create

it can facilitate our efforts to derange

society’s reigns

with the restrictions and constraints that we abstain

we can celebrate our differences and grow from our pain

we can animate the images and stories to which others may relate

and therefore form a community connected in producing social change.

‘Cause as the minority

up against the majority

we’re faced with blatant poverty

and animosity

evident in the discrimination

perpetuated by our nation

that goes as far back as the plantations

where nothing but cruelty and subordination

were passed down from generation to generation

with race, class, religious denomination

body type, ability, undocumentation

gender, ethnicity, even sexual orientation

We assert ourselves as powerless.

But that’s just what they’d like us to think

So they can sail the ship away while we are left to sink.

Like Freire says in his “Pedagogy of the Oppressed”

we become our own oppressors

and we become obsessed

with keeping each other down,

But if we were to turn it around

we can reverse the pyramid

that leaves us limited and inhibited

destruct the patriarchal ties

the hegemonic hierarchies

Bring truth to the lies

and have the opportunities

to finally achieve

true equality.

No one should go out casting stones

When there isn’t a single one of us without sin

And if we really wanna make the world a better place

We must learn to embrace the lasting change that comes from within.

Cause these ideas, rhymes, repetitions and visions are my child,

but I just have muster up the strength to bear it

and we all have so much cultural capital

but we have to be open and willing to share it.

So let’s deconstruct

this reality established by society

to reinvent

one with unity

that won’t relent

to make its priorities

not what’s best for the only the one percent

but for all of humanity.

This is all I have to say

Thank you for listening to all of the thoughts I worked to arrange

But remember the message I give you to take away:

We are not done, we never are. There is always room for change. 

And because it is finally raining after all of this time, I thought I'd add another one of my poems that's relevant to the weather: 

"It Rains" - June 2011 

It rains.

 Ten trillion droplets of my pain.

Down

  pour gallons of my sorrow

Desperate for the sun to come

  and dry it all tomorrow.

Storms of misery and tragedy

The lightning strikes with agony

The pedestrian stops to stare

everyone has become aware,

But you

   are the

     exception.

Do you even notice?

Or take me in vain?

the falling droplets of my pain

my emotions burst with me into tears

and then,

           It rains. 

It's not a secret that I hate the rain. I really do. In SoCal, I seem to be one of the few people (usually the only person, in most occasions) that hates the rain with a passion. Everyone seems to like it and enjoy it, since it's so rare here, and currently because we're in a drought. People find it romantic and calming, they like to fall asleep to the pitter patter of rain drops falling on the ground or tapping on their windows. But I don't care, I will always hate the rain. And that's hard to say because I honestly don't hate anything. I don't have the energy for that. Who does? But the cold, wet, winters have never been kind to me.  .  .

People always ask me "Why don't you like it?" and I have to say that it's a number of reasons. I grew up very poor, and I never had a car to go places with. My main source of transportation was riding a bicycle (as I've mentioned before in a previous post) and that was all I had to get to school with and go shopping for groceries. Well, whenever it rained, my mom, uncle and I would get drenched by the storms, leaving the roads slippery and tough to navigate with the weight of food hanging in bags on your handlebars and the difficulty to see the oncoming traffic with the foggy haze corroding your eyes. My immune system was never strong as a kid, especially since I grew up with malnutrition and second hand smoke that permeated my entire house at a certain point, so much so that our white walls were stained yellow and people complained of leaving our house with the smell of cigarette smoke absorbed into their hair and clothing. In fact, I lost several friends when their parents said they could no longer visit me or talk to me because they were disgusted by the living conditions that were a normative reality at my house. Anyways, I already got sick several times, as is seen throughout my diaries. My younger cousin and I recently read through the old diaries I kept from 4th grade till 6th grade, all 11 of them, and it wasn't hard to conceive that I was sick at least every 3 months, no exaggeration. That's how bad it was. I'm  pretty sure I've had every cold germ known to man EXCEPT for pneumonia, thank God. And when it rained, I got even sicker and had to miss days of school that I really shouldn't have. Not to mention the horrible process my mom would make me go through whenever I got sick. She would shove cloves of  garlic and onions down my throat instead of giving me conventional medicine, chicken noodle soup or tea, because she was and always has been into "alternative remedies" that really don't work for sh*t. That was traumatic in itself. But the rain never made any of this better, and like I illustrate in the poem, it only represented if not added to my pain. So I hope that you can at least find comfort or an instance of empathy within my words, cause I know I do.

And an exciting poetic adventure is up ahead for me! For my current English M107A, Women's Literature, class, there's a creative writing option for the upcoming assignment, so I'm going to present a collection of newly inspired, fresh poems! Stay tuned for that!

Thanks for reading. :)

Cheated Out of Childhood: Chapter 1 - Only the Beginning (The Letter "A")

Was I that mistaken? Deserving of such a brutal punishment for such an innocent mistake?

Before I delve into this post, I would like to start by making two separate shout-outs:

The first goes to my girl Kaleef Starks (AKA Kaleef Marcille) who is so strong, stylish, and brave in telling her story of how she is transitioning into the beautiful woman that she is. She’s actually the inspiration behind my blog, especially since I’ve always been working on my autobiography and looking for an outlet to share it. I think it’s important I give credit where it’s due, so if you’re interested in learning more about her fabulous self, check out her tumblr and blog here: http://kaleefmarcille.tumblr.com/ and know-direction.blogspot.com

The second goes to one of my closest friends, Maribel, for always supporting my work and promoting me in her very own blog: ihadyesterday.blogspot.com  Thanks for always being there for me! Check her out too!

Now, I want to begin this one on a positive note (or a few, at that):

^^^So as you can see in my recent Facebook posts above, I’m pretty darn happy and things are going pretty good. But let me tell you, it was not always this way.   .   .

I feel like in all the talking I’ve done so far on this blog, I’ve done a whole lot of telling but not enough showing. Like any good ‘ole English teacher will tell you, in order to make any paper good (or acceptable, really) you have to use imagery and describe your examples well, grounding them in solid evidence. You can’t just make a bunch of claims and have nothing to back them up. So it’s time I start providing you with the substance.

Ladies and gentleman, like I said previously in my Gender Studies course on Race, Class, Gender and Work before presenting my autobiographical Johari Window Project, This is where S*@% gets REAL.

They say you can only remember so far back, like perhaps up until 3 years old. Some people even report remembering things as far back as living in their mother’s uterus, but for me, it’s definitely since the age of 3. The initial instances of child abuse I’ve experienced were very violent and physical. From the very early age of 3 and onward, I can remember my Grandmother Esther pushing, punching, and pinching me along with the occasional cigarette butt she would die out on my arm or the picking me up directly from the hairs on my scalp she used to do to carry me around. I can remember her picking me up by the hairs on my head because I would hide from her under the dinner table when I was very little, and she was still strong enough herself to grab me by my unruly, thick, long, dark, curly hair, carry me to the living room, and throw me on the floor. I can recall one time where I was hiding under the table from her, and she found me, so I ran away to the living room before she could get to me, and when she did, I hid behind a puffy, blue rocking chair we had which swiveled around, thus making it very convenient to use as a shield to protect me from her as I could just swivel it away from her and use the front of it to block her. Well, when I did that, I somehow got attached to the chair and couldn’t get up. I looked down to realize that one of the metal rods which held the fabric down had penetrated my knee and was stuck in my skin. I had to yank it out the way a person impaled by an arrow or stabbed by a knife would, and when I did, the wound gushed out a trail of blood that ran down my entire leg. I went to show my mother in the bathroom and she just told me to clean it with soap and running water while applying pressure to stop the bleeding. Yep, that’s about the kind of neglect I faced. My own Grandma would chase me around the house and threaten me with her fists while my own mother wouldn’t even take me to the hospital to stitch an open wound gushing blood from my knee. I still have the scar on my right kneecap to prove it. (And speak of the devil, my mother’s birthday just passed, 2/19, making her 66. Yep, she’s THAT old with only one kid she tortured, SMH)

I can remember the cigarette burning especially because Grandma did it to me once when I was wearing my favorite pair of shorts. I had to be 6 or 7 at the time, and I had a pair of white and blue, silky short-shorts on that were made of light, luminescent jersey fabric. They fit me well and were really comfortable, which made them great for playing outside in. I just remember my Grandma calling me to get something for her or to put some sheets away I was making a tent with, and when I didn’t listen or politely turned her down, she smashed the lit cigarette into my forearm, which caused the fiery ash to fall onto my shorts and burn a hole through them. I had the shorts for many weeks after that until I grew out of them, and I remember always looking at the black rimmed hole that left a trace of my punishment, and I knew not to disobey Grandma ever again, until I was older of course, and she was older herself and no longer a threat to me.

But one incident I remember very vividly has to do with my mother and with The Letter “A”.

I was 5 years old. I hadn’t started school yet as my mom didn’t allow me go to pre-school or kindergarten. I don’t know why, perhaps she was just too lazy to enroll me, take me, or didn’t trust the teachers. Her paranoia probably led her to believe everyone in those industries were pedophiles or rapists who would “greatly endanger” me, as usual. (and as everyone else in the neighborhood and world, go figure) But she decided to home-school me instead, prep me for first grade, which was a living nightmare. I think she’s the reason why I’m always too nervous to ask for help. I mean, I’ve dealt with this problem several times in the past, and it’s receded much in present days, thank God, but it was most likely caused by her. (as all of my problems. Everything is her fault, what’s new?) It was horrible. I would try so hard to write/draw my ABCs correctly, and I always made a lopsided A. It looked pretty bad, I’ll admit it. It was never perfectly pointed and always ended up looking like a falling bridge, an uneven arc that was misshapen and hopelessly crooked, but everything else came out fine and I tried my hardest. I tried! But it was never good enough for her! I would ask for her help and she would demand I draw it again. Repeatedly, encouraging me to get it right. Her idea of encouragement was a persistent “Do it again!”, first stated calmly and sweetly until it eventually became a palpitating scream that rendered me inanimate. (NOTE TO SELF: Yep, this is probably the reason I’m a perfectionist nowadays)  I kept trying, and kept struggling, and kept failing, and instead of supporting me and letting me move on, or even acknowledging how nice my other letters were (or even congratulating me for trying so hard and doing a good job), she just leapt into my face and yelled at me. The pores on her nose and cheeks enlarging, her skin becoming flushed red with profound anger, her lips protruding so harshly to shape every, single word and belching out drops of spit to spray all over mine. It was horrendous. I was so frightened. All I wanted was some help so that I could perfectly draw the letter A. But it was never good enough, ever. I tried so hard. I remember shifting the pencil between my fingers to attempt different techniques. “Maybe I would get it right this time. Maybe if I hold it this way, it would work better,” I remember thinking to myself. But she was never satisfied. Her level of irritation just kept elevating even higher and higher until it became gushing out like broken water pipes bursting and her temper exploded into fits of slapping my cheeks repeatedly and pinching thick grasps of my skin. I was thoroughly traumatized.

            I practiced every day. I still wanted to draw the perfect A. “She would see it and be so proud of me!” I think I spent hours re-writing it, erasing it, and writing it again until my method was perfected and my written alphabet looked flawless. I was so happy! I had finally replicated the “perfect A”! “Mommy would be so happy! All I have to do is find some paper,” I thought to myself. I looked all around until I found an envelope. My mother was always into doing those stupid mailing scams. Like Publishing’s Clearing House Sweepstakes, Australian “lotteries”, “Work-In Home” applications, you know, pyramid scheme type establishments because she was gullible enough (and dumb enough) to believe them. I think I actually comprehended this at that age, but I didn’t consider it because I was so relieved to have finally discovered the way to make the perfect A and I wanted to show her! I was so eager. I took the envelope because it was the first piece of paper I saw and wrote down my entire alphabet with that “perfect A” I was so proud of. I overheard her talking with Uncle Frank in the next room and jumped to run over to her. I begged and begged her to look, trying to get one minute of her attention. I must have called out “mommy” a hundred times until she looked down to notice the line of ABC’s written crookedly on her precious envelope. She looked down in contempt, driven with rage and snatched the envelope from my hand. My smile turned into a flustered frown and she began viciously slapping me, recurrently. I felt like each word she uttered came out individually, unattached to the others. “YOU. STUPID. LITTLE. IGNORANT. PIECE. OF. SHIT! HOW. COULD. YOU. DESTROY. THIS. ENVELOPE. FOR. MY. WORK. AT. HOME. POSITION? THIS. WAS. MINE. AND. YOUR. UNCLE’S. ONLY. HOPE. FOR. AN. INCOME. YOU. STUPID. LITTLE. FUCKING. BITCH. HOW. COULD. YOU?”  Every word followed by a slap to the cheek. I felt my face redden as the blood forcefully flowed to the pigments of my cheeks and they swelled as my eyes did with tears. I was so confused. I didn’t know I had done anything wrong! I didn’t mean to! I just wanted to show her the beautiful letters I worked so hard to write! To make her proud of my improvement! To make her proud of my effort! She slapped the shit out of me, and I stayed there, perplexed and shocked. At disbelief of what she had just done to me. I was scared out of my wits and after being stunned for a minute, I ran away to the old, musky roll up bed she kept for my father and cried myself to sleep. I don’t know if my gauge of time was accurate as a kid, but it felt like I cried for hours before I fell asleep. I just felt so hurt that she would jump at me like that. That she would become so angry over a stupid envelope when I didn’t mean to ruin anything for her and just wanted to show her what I worked so hard on. I just lied there, face smushed into the dirty, brown, itchy, coarse fabric that was bound into a bundle on the carpet. I dug my face into it, red and wet from my tears that it soaked, and cried until I fell asleep. I remember feeling so bad. I blamed myself for it! I was beating myself up about it. I kept thinking, “I should have waited until she wasn’t busy with Uncle! I should have gotten a different piece of paper! I’m so stupid!” Perhaps my actual thoughts weren’t so concise, predictable, or grammatically correct, but that was the idea of what I thought. I didn’t at all consider her actions to be unwarranted. I thought I deserved what I had gotten. How horrible is that? And sadly, readers, this is quite common. This is what little kids all around the world, as I once was, think when they get abused a majority of the time. They blame themselves and internalize it as if they deserved it. Sad, but true. It’s a sick case of Stockholm syndrome and the way we interpret reality.

According to ethnomethodologists Mehan and Wood[1], there are five features of reality, which include reflexivity, coherence, interaction, fragility, and permeability. I’m not going to go on a long spiel and give you an entire Sociology lesson, but the essential point is that our notion of reality exists with incorrigible propositions which are reflexive. This means that we have certain beliefs that are set in stone and everything we perceive in the world is used to build the foundation for these beliefs and prove they are true. However, if we interact with others or come into contact with counterevidence, our entire belief system can collapse and become rebuilt for potential change. Like Karren Warren argues, “severe abuse in the family continues because the family members learn to regard it ‘normal.’ A victim of abuse may come to see that her abuse is not ‘normal’ when she has contact with less abusive families.” (Smith, 17)[2] This is why so many young children are fooled into thinking that their parents’ extreme disciplinary actions are acceptable and that they are at fault for the dysfunctional behaviors of their family. Especially since they are so young, their judgment is very clouded. Until they grow older, mature, and interact with other people outside of their home, they will continue to blame themselves for the abuse their parents dole out onto them. And just like every other kid who deals with a messed up family, it took me years to realize mine was nowhere near “normal.”

            So folks, this is just the beginning of it all. There is much more to come, but I think that’s enough depressing stuff for now.

---

[1] O'Brien, Jodi, Hugh Mehan, and Houston Wood. "Five Features of Reality." The production of reality: essays and readings on social interaction. 5th ed. Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Pine Forge Press, 2006. 379-395. Print.

[2] Smith, Andrea. "Sexual Violence as a Tool of Genocide." Conquest: sexual violence and American Indian genocide. Cambridge, MA: South End Press, 2005. 7-33. Print.

 To lift the mood, I’ll leave this little gem of a pharmacy mishap for laughs. It’s hilarious!

Thanks for reading. : )

Belated Valentine's Day: What I Want in a Man (or potential partner)

Happy Late Valentine's Day! Sorry I've been gone for a bit. I had to move away from distractions and focus on studying for my midterms, which I think went pretty good. (besides a horrible blunder I made in completely forgetting about one, but I'm still okay, I hope! :/ )

So, Valentine's Day has come and past and I had a good day hanging out with various friends, watching random Youtube vids and old 90s movies. However, after watching this vid by Hey Yo Shanna (AKA Shanna Malcom, a hilarious Youtuber and great friend of Shane Dawson, another hilarious Youtube celeb) I thought she made some valid points.

^^^(Now, this video is like 15mins long, so if you just wanna brief synopsis about it, it's basically Shanna with her friend/fellow Youtuber Bree Esrig drunkenly talking about her past 6 years being divorced, single and celibate. She goes on to write a list of all the qualities she expects to see in a man)

This vid reminded me of an assignment my old Therapist gave me when I was back in high school. He told me to write a journal entry on my "perfect man" and this is what I came up with:

(Disclaimer: There's a very good reason for why his name is "Chad." Back when I was in elementary and middle school, [and as I have hinted in a previous blog post] I was literally in love with a cartoon character. I really didn't find anything that attractive or desirable about the actual human celebrities at the time, so I was ridiculed about it for a loooong time. [a good 5 years at LEAST] So, in my defense, when girls started asking me which male celeb I thought was a hottie, I started instinctively saying Chad Michael Murray. In reality, I  thought he was Okaaaay, not that cute or anything, but he was the first person I saw during a commercial break on channel 5 [before it was called the CW network and they still aired Dawson's Creek] Therefore, the name of my now fictitious "dream man" is Chad because of this. Hope you like this short little story before I get into the good stuff! :P )

Journal Entry (2010-2011) "My Ideal Lover":

His name is Chad. He’s about six feet tall, light complexion, beautiful greenish-blue eyes, along with slick, mid-length, straight, black hair that he always wears down and curled around his right ear. He is my everything. He is a gorgeous, beautiful man, on the inside and out. He’s so genuine. He likes engineering, electronics, and computer programming. He’s really creative with painting and graphic design. He’s an intellectual who enjoys reading and discussing world/life issues. He’s a great listener who loves conversation, especially with me. The two of us can talk about anything in the universe and never feel awkward or uncomfortable in front of each other. He’s so strong. He’s really healthy too. He’s not that much into sports, but he works out regularly and only eats nutritious foods. He gets the craving for a sub or a six dollar burger from Carl’s Jr. every now and then, but he adores sharing a decked salad with me at Soup Plantation or in the comfort of our own home. He likes lifting weights in the gym, running, walking, or even bike riding around the Rose Bowl with me or sometimes just around the park or our neighborhood. He never drinks, smokes or parties, really. He’d rather spend time with me and he prefers to lead a clean lifestyle. He’s so fun and laid back. He likes going on simple, little dates, like to the movies or to Starbucks, which are cheap but enjoyable none the less. Sometimes, he’ll settle to just chillax and cuddle with me when he gets off from work. He’s so hardworking and helpful. He works full time, but casually gets off early to help me with chores around the house. He’s so romantic and affectionate. He loves long walks on the beach, gazing at the stars and candle lit dinners. Occasionally, he’ll surprise me with a lovely dinner at home, and the entire dining room will be decorated with my favorite meals prepared. I do the same for him, of course. He loves to hold me every night before I fall asleep and kisses my forehead every morning as soon as I wake. Quite frequently, we’ll find ourselves piled on the bed just kissing each other and I’ll be in his arms with his lips on my neck, leaving me breathless unable to produce a word, and in my own personal paradise. He’s so considerate. He is acutely aware of me while I’m with him, very attentive to my every need, constantly asking to know what’s on my mind or how I’m feeling, and he’ll tell me what he’s thinking as well. He came from a challenging background too, and he has blossomed into such a wonderful person, despite his past hardships. He is so trustworthy, honest, and protective of me. He never, ever lies to me, about anything. And even if it is bad news that he must share with me, he’ll let me down easy in a gentle fashion. I can tell him anything and he will never fail to keep it a secret, if it’s a private matter. Whenever he feels that I am in danger or that someone is threatening my well-being or offending me in any way, he will shield me from them at all costs, even if it is harmful to himself. Of course, I don’t’ want him getting hurt in the process of defending me, but he thinks that I’m worth the risk. Whenever I’m sad or upset, he’s always there to comfort me. He’ll hold me in his arms and gently wipe away every tear before it even gets the chance to cascade from the surface of my face. He’ll whisper in my ear “everything’s going to be alright. You’ve got me babe” and hold me really tight until I’m fine once more.

He is my happiness. He is my everything. He shares all of my hopes and dreams and supports me in any way possible. His name is Chad. 

Even though that was back in high school, I can't really say much has changed about my views on love, relationships and my ideal partner. However, I do have to admit that when I was younger, I profoundly believed that I had to find someone that came from a challenging background like myself, which I find rather faulty now. I thought that in order to be compatible with someone, we both had to have suffered in order to relate to each other best, and though this may seem plausible, I think now that it's actually inaccurate. Just because a person comes from a more "normal" or "privileged" background doesn't mean they won't be able to support me properly. Like my good friend Natalie says, "Be the crazy one in the relationship, because you do NOT want to be with someone crazier than yourself." I agree with this fully! I'm pretty effing crazy, so I better find someone sane!

So, because Shanna was so nice as to make her own list on what she envisions are the perfect qualities her ideal man has, I shall make my own. (And in all honesty, it really won't differ much from hers) So here it is:

1) Integrity: I think that this is an essential quality in any person. Be true to yourself and everyone else in your life. Practice what you preach and stick to your moral values.

2) Trustworthiness: I think that this is another HUGE one in ALL relationships. I feel like you can't have love without trust. I'm looking for someone who I can depend on, in sickness and in health, that will be there for me through everything. I think that within this one are honesty and loyalty, because a person who isn't trustworthy won't embody any of these other qualities either.

3) Stability: I'm not saying that I'm not stable myself, but some pretty erratic things have taken place in my lifetime, and when things get out of control, they stir a lot of anarchy in me as well, causing my emotions to spiral out of control and therefore, I need a person who can be my rock  to lean on and keep me grounded when times are rough.

4) Passion: Like Shanna says in her video, passion is very important in a significant other. If they're not passionate about anything, then what makes them interesting or unique? What are they living for or doing with their life?

5) Understanding: I think we all look to others for understanding. We want to belong and feel that sense of being understood that cleans away all of our insecurities and worries about whether we are heard or related to.

6) Consideration: This goes along with kindness. I just want someone who is mindful of their actions and their effects on others. Acknowledge your sweetheart. Give credit where it's due. Offer help when it's needed. These things should be obvious most of the time, but it seems to me that there are many in this world who are super self-centered and don't know or care about the other people who surround them.

7) Empathy: I think that it's appropriate this come after Understanding and Consideration. My life experiences are very varied and unique to the circumstances I've been derived from and the situations I've encountered which many others in my current standing have not. Therefore, it may be difficult or even impossible to relate to me or fully understand where I'm coming from. However, even if you can't identify with me, I think its really important you at least empathize or sympathize with me so that I can feel appreciated, cared for, and respected.

8) Belief in God: Again, like Shanna's list, I really do want someone who shares a spiritual connection with our Creator as I do myself.

9) Purity, Celibacy/Abstinence: another one similar to Shanna's, I'm a proud virgin and I believe sex is a sacred act that shouldn't be earned until marriage, and therefore, I need someone who is patient, committed, and determined to wait with me while we let our love blossom and grow.

10) Affectionate: Because of my destructive upbringing, I was severely deprived of affection, compassion, and intimacy. So these are things that are HIGHLY necessary for me in a relationship. Some might call me "touchy feely" but it's how I gotta be to stay alive. I'm incredibly sensitive and I need a man (or woman, or transsexual, I admire all of the colors of the rainbow) to constantly show me affection through physical touch, words of affirmation, and quality time. (speaking of these, check out the 5 Love Languages quiz here: http://www.5lovelanguages.com/profile/)


So there ya go! There's my list! And though I'm still finding happiness in the single life right now, I also went Speed Dating last week and I got a match, so we'll see how that goes. :)

And while I was writing this, my starred  playlist on Spotify played this song which is one of my favorites and I think rather relevant to this post:

Thanks for reading. =)