My previous post was about having cooties. This one’s about recovery. It was nothing serious, but I’m still certainly under the weather. Today was the first time I felt motivated to clean my apartment and go for a walk in my neighborhood. It was just the kind of look I liked outside, but colder than I’d thought.
I only just know how to make quinoa for dinner, so while I waited for my quinoa to finish cooking, I thought I’d post the pictures from my walk that I took with my new smartphone that I bought to replace my old-school Nokia. Really, the pictures don’t look much better than those sad ones I used to post with my low-tech phone.
But I like the sidewalk panel one because it reminds me of Gregory Crewdson. You can google image his work with light and panels and that sort of thing. I have a lot of nerve even uttering his name in the same paragraph including a description of a picture I took with a camera phone — haha! Oh, and I do like the one with the frozen river. The first one in the third row I took because I was actually trying capture this tall, thin man walking in front of me — I liked the imagery of his figure on that block — he walked fast and I couldn’t really get him. Don’t pay any mind to the stupid plastic bag in one of my photos of the trees in the park.
And of course since I’m not on Facebook anymore (for now anyway) I had to include selfies — where else am I gonna post selfies now? There’s one happy and one sad, to represent me with cooties and without.
I apologize but boredom brings out my vanities. So, in the end, I do feel better, and I did manage to burn my quinoa. By the way it’s 3am, and I should be crawling into bed soon. Goodnight…
George Weaver thought I was in Mensa. Mensa’s that group where people with high IQs commiserate about explaining stuff to those of the dumb. I basked in the glory of being seen as somebody really really smart, but I don’t want to mislead anybody, so I immediately told George that I was dumb. My About page says that I’m published in Calliope, a journal printed by Mensa. That’s how she got the idea that I was a genius. This is her fabulous photography site.
I went to Columbia University and got an A minus average. I feel like I can tell you that because I was old (25) when I went back to school after a drunken stint at community college; and also because I dropped out after two years of credits. Once, I asked this girl what college she went to. Embarrassed, she cast her head down and said Yale. I gathered that it’s bad taste to brag about going to an Ivy League school. But only if you did it when you were supposed to do it. It’s okay if I tell you where I went to school since I’m one of those handicapped cases who goes back when they’re old.
Somebody said I probably got into CU because I was black and at that time black people were ‘in’. Maybe. Plus during my college interview, I had a platinum afro, a nose ring and my college essay was about being an alcoholic. They thought, Aw the freaky black chick’s trying to improve upon herself – let’s give her a chance. Besides, I’d give them diversity. They wanted to throw somebody freaky into the mix y’all!
I got a scholarship and took out a loan to pay tuition. After the second semester, I decided to work there because they offered tuition remission. This was 1988 when you could get jobs anywhere you wanted. For the youngins — back then, you could have three jobs, jobs coming out of your ass – nowadays, you can’t buy a fucking job. Anyway, after working there almost five years, I was laid off at the same time I was offered to be published in an anthology. I would get leverage in my field of interest. So my anti-establishment ass says, ‘Fuck it, I don’t need no degree to be no writer, plus, it’s more romantic to be a rogue writer. Why, I’m an auto-didact, I am!’ You see folks, why I could never have been in Mensa? These are the kinds of backass decisions that those of the dumb make daily.
The picture of my behind that my sister took when I visited looked just fine.
Here she is with her husband:
I wanted her to take one so that I could see how fat it was after eating different kinds of cake. I said maybe I’d post a picture of it. But since my butt looked fine I ate more cake. I only wanted to post it if it was huge, to shame myself, in front of everybody. So now I don’t have to show it to you.
But the real reason I won’t show it to you is because my hair was stone busted! I wear an afro these days and I give afros a bad name in that butt picture. I don’t want the people who read this who want afros to think that they all come out like that.
Here’s a better picture with one of my fake sons and me during the visit where you can’t see how busted my hair was:
Wait a cotton pickin’ minute! How’d that get in there?!
[Deleted the picture of Steve Harvey dressed as woman holding ‘Steve Harvey’ baby with mustache — didn’t want to get sued. Too bad you didn’t catch it earlier. It was hilarious.]
Here it is now — this is me and both of my fake sons:
There wasn’t any cake there but there were cookies, Cheetos, popcorn, Fritos and ice cream. I ate them because my sister’s husband bought them special for my visit. I ate them instead of dinner. I don’t like food anyway. Food’s a burden. I had fun there.