And we accept that. We accept sucky ass government officials who have no one’s best interests at heart.
Dude on train *asks me how to get to Penn Station*
I respond that I don’t know.
Dude sarcastically : You don’t know where you’re going?
Me patiently, following Rule 62 of what to do when dudes be duding: I know exactly where I’m going I don’t know how to help you get to where you’re going.
5-6 random femmes of all ages and nationalities *jump in to help him, Whip out phones, point to diagrams.*
Dude: I can’t take y’all seriously y’all don’t sound secure.
All of us femmes except one *glance over phones, smirk, sigh, roll our eyes, make eye contact that says Gurl, return to our bubbles*
The remaining femme, the one who seems to be most over his shit *continues to help him figure out his directions*
Dude *continues to be super whack.* Thanks his helper in a manner fitting of being a dude on a train with a huge ass suitcase.
Of course I have six different stories on the reason why he’s on the train with this huge ass suitcase in the first place. At least 2 being that some femme got sick of his Dudely ways.
One moment in Jordan Cline’s life tears his entire family apart. He and his cousin Travis have been in a tragic accident. All three of the car’s occupants were terribly injured but what happened? Jordan may go to prison for thirty years because although he says that he was not driving all of the witnesses and all of the evidence point directly towards Jordy. And no one believes him except for his mother. Of course, mother’s never want to believe that their children are capable of terrible things.
Faultlines takes us along for the wild ride that Jordan and his mother’s life are on after the accident. Was Jordan drinking and driving? If he wasn’t then why is the town hero Officer Huck out to destroy Jordan’s life? Barbara Taylor Sissal has written a mystery that keeps the reader guessing the entire time.
I loved Faultlines, the way that it unfolds kept me engaged and rooting for Jordy and Sandy. I kept wanting him to be innocent even when all of the signs pointed to his guilt. Oh and the climax… I DID NOT see THAT climax coming. I was literally sitting there staring at the book with my mouth wide open.
Also, That small town attitude that the story describes is XACTLY why I love living in the city. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
I gave this story 4 stars and would gladly read another book from this author.
I haven’t thrown a book in the corner for quite a while but The Buried Book by D.M. Pulley is going straight into the corner. I would also like them to repay me my time and make my brain stop hurting.
The story isn’t bad per se… but the characters just got on my last nerve. Uhhhh I guess I should tell you what the story is about before I discuss characters so here goes:
Jasper’s mom Althea drops him off at her brother’s farm to live. She leaves him there with nothing but a suitcase and a bible. She doesn’t give anyone a real reason for her abandoning Jasper. She’s apparently left him in the past but never for this many days so Jasper begins to worry. He overhears the adults talking about her and figures that she must be in trouble so Jasper goes on a hunt for his mother putting himself in frequent danger. The entire story is one boringly outlandish incident after another as Jasper, a nine year old boy, hunts for his mother alone
While on this hunt Jasper finds her childhood journal which he uses for clues to where she may be. He finds himself on Indian Reservations, at bars, and strip clubs during his hunt. The story is outlandish and Jasper’s frequent crying and injuries just add to the outlandishness of the story. You set fire to the barn and burned a house down and didn’t get your ass whooped once from your terrifying christian farmer uncle?- I think not.
I struggle to give this story 2 stars but I managed to eek them out since I completed the book and cared enough about the characters to make it to the end. I do like D.M. Pulley so I’m going to consider this story a fluke…
EDIT: I lied up above where I said that I like D.M. Pulley. When I went to add this title to The Book Corner I see that the last book that I added to that list was The Dead Key by D.M. Pulley. My bad. I shall now avoid D.M. Pulley like I avoid people with unvaccinated children. *Kayne Shrug*
Christoper Yates’ Grist Mill Road is a weirdly entertaining wild ass ride. Every time you think to yourself, “this story can’t get any crazier” or “these people can’t get any weirder” Yates unveils another level of hurt, betrayal, misunderstanding, violence and resentment.
In 1982 a group of friends suffer a traumatic ordeal where one of them is seriously injured by another one. In 2008 we meet this fractured group of friends again living their own lives under the shadow of what happened all of those years ago. Why did it happen? What actually happened? Who was really there? And what’s next?
The story jumps back and forth from 1982 to 2008 giving us background and telling us their version of the story in the three character’s, Patrick, Hannah, and Matthew, voices. Sometimes this method of story telling can be a little dizzying but Yates weaves the story together magically.
I felt like I was on a rollercoaster ride the entire time and give the story 4 Stars.
*I was given an advanced copy of this book in exchange for an honest review*
I’ve just finished working out with my trainer, in front of my house, something I do twice a week. For almost two years twice a week we meet here, underneath my carport where we do a mixture of kickboxing and cardio. I realize that this is some privileged shit. That I’m even more privileged and once more during the week on Sundays I meet him at a gym for bootcamp. Oftentimes I’m the only person at bootcamp so I get another private personal training session. But I don’t feel privileged.
I feel scared. Nervous. Stressed. I’m stressed about my body. A stress that I’ve been dealing with for more than twenty years. An obsession that if I’m not careful could kill me. I have an eating disorder. One diagnosed by my psychiatrist after my divorce when I casually mentioned that I was at least eating more often. To which she wanted to know:
Do you not eat often?
How long have you been doing that?
Do you binge?
How often do you weigh yourself?
How many diets have you been on in the last year?
What do you eat in a typical day?
How often do you exercise?
Twice a day? For how long? And ordered: Let’s keep a food journal.
Of course, I didn’t. I didn’t need a food journal. I didn’t have an eating problem. I had an “I just lost my spouse problem.” So I quit going to her. She obviously didn’t know how to do her job. Besides, Black girls don’t have eating disorders.
On the one hand I’m a nurse and I know that anyone of any gender, race, and socioeconomic class can suffer from an eating disorder but on the other hand, I’m black. We don’t DO eating disorders. That’s some white people shit. Some middle class shit. Which, as I think about who taught me how to eat every other day, how to eat whatever I wanted and throw it back up later, how to stick a toothbrush down my throat until I learned to vomit on demand, how to over exercise and under eat- a group of black girls on a cheerleading squad, black girls definitely do DO eating disorders.
But It’s under control. I have not weighed myself in over a year. I eat daily. I haven’t purged in years. I’m cured Or so I tell myself. But I’m obsessed. I spend hours a week in front of the mirror looking at my body. Assessing the weight distribution. Is that muscle? Is my belly fat? Are my boobs getting smaller or bigger. I obsess about food. Eat secret meals that I buy with cash so my wife is unaware of what all I’ve eaten then throw the bags in the front trash can where she never looks or at gas stations on the way home. Then I obsess about what I’ve eaten for days. For months. And I know that this too, this obsession with my body composition, with every calorie that I’ve put into it, is in fact an eating disorder. I wonder, how long it’ll take until I convince myself to abstain from food or even worst to purge.
I feel lonely in this journey. I’m not super skinny so I don’t fit in with those girls and the thick girls, well I’m not quite thick enough. So I don’t pipe up when they discuss how difficult it is to find good bras, or how happy they are about their weight loss, about their inch loss. On more than one occasion, on more than one thread I’ve received the message. The shut yo skinny thick ass up you can’t sit with us message. So I suffer in silence. Drive my wife crazy with questions, Do you see it? Do I look skinnier? Is all of my hard work obvious? I fret that I’ll drive her crazy. That eventually she will leave me, for someone with a higher self esteem. For someone who loves their body. For someone skinnier.
I’ve looked up the stats on eating disorders in black women and not surprisingly there are none. Exact statistics on the prevalence of eating disorders among women of color are unavailable. According to the National Eating Disorders Association, “Due to our historically biased view that eating disorders only affect white women, relatively little research has been conducted utilizing participants from racial and ethnic minority groups.” Even though sociologists recognize that black women suffer from eating disorders they don’t have enough data because for a very long time, even for scientists, black girls don’t have eating disorders. At least until now.
For the record my trainer is amazing and I can see the difference in pictures from before I started working out with him up until now but I can’t see the difference. (Only someone with an eating disorder will understand that last part.)
Ok, So firstly, there’s a whole ass serial killer running around my neighborhood shooting unsuspecting people dead.NO LIE. And Obviously since it’s happening in the black part of my neighborhood (which most of my neighbors won’t admit is the black part of my neighborhood) there are rumors that the person is a black man. Light skinned. 6 feet something inches tall. AND if the serial killer IS this man then he deserves to be put all the way up under the jail. Once for killing people for no good god damned reason. Twice for all of the black people who are now being terrorized, harassed, and arrested by SWAT, the FBI, Tampa Police Department and every other law force that’s been running around here for weeks.
S/N ALLLLLLL OF THESE PEOPLE BEEN RUNNING AROUND HERE FOR WEEKS AND SOMEONE IS STILL ABLE TO KILL RANDOM ASS PEOPLE IN BROAD NIGHT/DAYLIGHT. – File this under reasons why I know we don’t need military gear on police officers.
I can’t even talk about this serial killer anymore without getting really upset so hopefully Santa’s ass will be able to find him. My friend Nicole thinks that Santa is the dude for the job since the police are failing miserably. I mean, he does know when you’ve been bad or good so…
I love being an entrepreneur and running my businesses but honestly there are days when I want to punch people that I work with SQUARE in the jaw. Like So:
Like today when I called an employee and was all like “Hey, I don’t have your timesheet. And he responds” Oh, I wasn’t here yesterday. So I’ll pass it on.” And I wanted to respond “NO bxtch. It’s your time. Turn it the eff in.” But I instead just said “No. I need you to send it to me ASAP.” In a professional voice. I would really like to punch him. Unfortunately for me, punching people is frowned upon in most circles.
best friend sister and I almost exclusively communicate on a video app where I record a video and then she responds with another video. These videos- sometimes long and rambling, sometimes short and ranting are usually the highlight of my day. We live sixty six billion miles away from each other but it doesn’t feel that way. #ThanksCommunicationApps
Also, DJ thinks the videos are weird. “Why don’t you all just call each other.” I just smh and roll my eyes. Children can be so judgey.
Speaking of DJ, He’s a member of his school’s Model United Nations Team and hasdecided that he’s going to be on the fundraising committee. He’s raising money to help the team get to Washington DC and I’m super proud of all of the texts, phone calls, and emails he’s sent out attempting to raise funds for his team. My family and friends who’ve been on the receiving end of the give me money calls may not be so happy but ehhhh. *shrugs*
I’m participating in NANOWRIMO but since my life doesn’t always allow for typing on a computer every day for writing stuff, I’ve been mostly writing in my journal and on my phones notes app. I can’t tell you where I am on the word count but I have been writing everyday and for me that’s more than enough
OH, and I got another rejection letter to a fellowship I applied for. YAY ME.
Lastly, my dogs are still out of their minds. I’ve just realized that almost every corner of my house has been nibbled on by these two love bugs. Good thing I plan on living here forever, even with the serial killer. * Le Sigh*
I just completed my Nanowrimo Day 1 goal. Actually I EXCEEDED it by a whole 227 words and yes I’m patting myself on the back because I know there will likely be days where I barely hit one thousand words in a day so: YASSSSS to small wins.
We were (AB and I) invited to a housewarming party. She reminded me slightly before 4pm about the 6pm invite and originally I was going to do a 1K1Hr at 6pm. Normally I would have taken a whole nap before going out but this time I took a 20 minute rest and sat down to write.
I used Dr Wicked’s Write or Die and didn’t really have any issues getting the words out once I sat down and turned off my WiFi.
N-T-Ways I’m in the car now headed to the party so I’m signing off but if you’re a writer and are writing today my wish for you is that the words flow like water through your finger tips onto the page.
Yesterday my brother called. The one I’m closest with. Who is directly underneath me in birth order. The one I probably speak to the least. He makes mistakes frequently which end up with him paying prolonged visits behind bars.
We talk about a lot of things. Or he mostly talks and I mostly listen. To his excuses. To how proud he is of me. To how he’s especially proud since I dropped out of school and blah blah blah. He doesn’t mention that I dropped out of traditional high school because of bullies and because I was a teenager and everything that happens to teenagers is the end of the world. So I left traditional high school, went directly to Job Corps and before I would have completed traditional high school; graduated with my GED and CNA.
He doesn’t mention that after that I kept moving up. Went back to school. Got my nursing degree. That in between there I had a baby and got married. That I’ve never lived with my mother after the age of eighteen. That I’ve pulled myself along to who I am now without the help of social services.
He doesn’t know how difficult being a business owner is. That managing a home, and a family, and dogs, and a writing career are the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life. I just don’t quit.
He doesn’t think about how we came from the same home, in the same city, with the same mom and dad. That the city and circumstances that he blames for his downfall are the same ones that I credit for my toughness. My tenacity. My ability to code shift. My ability to barter and negotiate. To think outside the box. To always try to be two steps ahead of danger. To be myself. To discern whether someone is genuine or not within the first few words. To do so many nuanced things that I use to run my business and my life daily.
After we hung up, I realized that his call, which was totally about him was actually ALL about me. Somewhere deep inside of me I’ve been carrying these things around in shame. The GED, the baby at 18, the divorce. Even the roughened edges which help me get through most days. My annoyance that he was throwing my life in my face as if it were such a bad thing, was actually annoyance at myself for whatever lingering shame I carry from my upbringing and subsequent bad decisions.
It made me realize how I’m often annoyed that people occasionally treat me as less than and how that annoyance has nothing to do with those people and everything to do with me. His call, – which lowkey annoyed me at first since it was late and I was busy working in bed- was just what I needed to grow pass some of my hidden shame. Like I told him on the phone, the Universe always gives you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it.
Also, God is from Brick City and the best roses grow from concrete.