Gimmie.

You know I could really screw myself for saying this out loud-well writing it out loud. I woke up yesterday morning and something kinda genius clicked. I'm sitting there under the covers, nodding my head and stroking my upper lip. Yes, this makes sense. Yesterday morning I woke up feeling particularly shallow.

Now calm the fuck down because this will be my standing condition for at least the rest of the summer. This I know. I want things. And unfortunately I want them now. See, now, I'm not supposed to say things like that. Among other things, I'm supposed to be practicing patience. However, I think I've been quite patient sitting here waiting for rain and getting sandstorms. I'm supposed to be grateful for those sandstorms somehow. Everything happens for good reason. But me wanting "things" is not all in the sense of some man giving me things (smile)-that's only part of it.

I want my goals and hopes to come to fruition.
I want to bust my ass and have it really and truly pay-the-fuck off.
I want it all to fall into place
be challenging, but worth it
be brutal and still beautiful.

See. My American Dream is simple: Become that self-made woman; building up my own brand, giving back, picking up the slack for all the fuckheads that are always in the way. And I'd like to haul some people up there with me. Gimmie that please.

Next gimmie another who can handle all that. That will accept the cranky but put a halt to the bullshit. I need support, but I also need someone who is going to demand the best of me. What the fuck do I want with someone who is fine with me staying exactly the same. Gimmie a partner IN LIFE, a man to grow with me, challenge me, upset me, and occasionally piss me off. The last thing I want is a bore. I also need to laugh, and frankly I like to be shown off. I like to be doted on and thought of. Gimmie that please.

Now gimmie my house, my crib, my space with the gourmet kitchen and the DEPARTMENT STORE CLOSET. Give me flowers in mason jars, biscuits and granite counter tops, bookshelves and paintings, pillows and showcases, photographs, post-it notes: "Cheese... Milk... Scotch tape...", a chaise and ebony hardwood floors. Give me closets. Give me closets. Give me CLOSET SPACE!

Next loud ass fucking kids, smart kids who dig in the dirt but know Cavali when they see it. Kids that respect their elders, love their nappy hair, but know bullshit when they smell it. Give me children that know I love them with all my being, that respect each other, go to bat for one another, embrace one another. Give me forts and midnight snacks. Movie nights and family field trips. Give me the Smithsonian and Mount Fuji and the London Tower with sticky juice-packs and "MA! My feet hurt...". Gimmie that please.

Most days I'm happy.
Most days I can remind myself to persevere.
...lalalalala ... patienceis a virtue... lalalala

Fuck that. Gimmie GImmie Gimmie.
I scream it to the sky, I scream it in my pillows in my phone in my-resume. Gimmie.A.Job.
Most of the time I'm screaming for this. For "things".
And all the time, its ME that I'm screaming at. Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie.