I Ate Too Much.

My stomach is FULL. Like, let-me-go-lay-my-ass-down full.

In November, I started seeing a dietitian. I am an emotional eater. I am a binge eater. I am a disordered eater. It finally felt like I needed to deal with that. And I knew I needed help, so I got help.

Things were going great until about two months ago. I think I had worried that COVID and lockdown would be the things to knock me “off track,” but they weren’t. I was actually doing my best during that time because I was cooking a bunch. And I was afraid the world would end, so I was also rationing. LOL.

For me, ordering out is the trigger for a lot of my food shit. So the less I do, the less I’m likely to slip into emotional eating habits (AKA overeating).

But when the uprising kicked off after George Floyd’s murder, I became so invested in attending protests and having conversations and donating to organizations that I would literally forget to eat. And then I started eating for comfort. And then I started a new job and needed to adjust to having a work schedule again.

And then it kind of spiraled from there.

I don’t have much more to say. Bodies and food and emotions are complicated. I’m still working through my shit. And that’s OK.

"WAP" by Cardi B & Megan Thee Stallion is a Holy Text.

Last night, I was supposed to go to bed by 11pm.

Then I went on Twitter and saw that Cardi B. and Megan Thee Stallion had released their new single, “WAP.” (I’m not going to write what it stands for because I am a Child of God! J/K — I just know future bosses could very well read this blog.)

I watched the first 15 seconds of the music video and was like (a) I am not grown enough for this; and (b) are they really rapping about what I think they are? Because the music video is the radio edit. So then I had to go listen to the explicit version.

And y’all… I truly am not grown enough for the lyrics, the finesse, the subject matter. But I fucking love this song. Not only is it exactly the late summer banger we needed. Not only are Cardi and Meg at their best lyrically. Not only did it provide us with quotes and visuals and maybe sex education we'll benefit from for the rest of our lives.

BUT THE WAY IT HAS SOME OF Y’ALL PRESSED SOLIDIFIES IT AS ANOTHER OPUS IN 2020’S FEMINIST CANON OF “BLACK WOMEN ARE UNFUCKWITABLE.”

There is no part of me that I can relate to I wanna say 90% of the lyrics in this song. (Hello, I’m single.) BUT THE ENERGY? I genuinely feel like I carry Big “WAP” Energy these days. I think maybe many of us have carried “WAP” energy (which has very little to do with your actual anatomy or gender, this bitch believes) our whole lives. And for that, I grateful to Our Lady of the Spicy Tongue and Our Lady of the Good Knees.

I’ve had a love affair with raunchy, ratchet rap music for a long time. “Back That Azz Up” will have me acting a fool in the middle of a wedding, a restaurant, a work event. I know all the lyrics to “Shake That Money” and when I die, I want, “BITCH, WHY YOU GOTTA SAY IT LIKE $HORT?” inscribed on my urn. While some of y’all wish to have the confidence of a mediocre white men, I aspire to have the swaggering audacity of Lil Kim’s verse in “Get Money.”

Black women rappers (and their white impersonators) have always rapped about their sexual prowess, just like Black men rappers have. This shit is not new, so IDK why some of y’all act like brand new. We only have Nicki, Cardi, and Meg because Foxy, Kim, Trina, and Khia came before them. The lineage is long. The WAP Energy been making y’all made for decades.

But what I have loved about the last ten years is how unapologetic and mainstream the celebration and appreciation of these types of rappers and their music has become. Women being open about how nasty they are in the bedroom, how proud they are of their sexuality, and how their sexuality is essential to their power in the world? Even if I can’t relate, I can stan.

But also, Black women’s sexuality — and I would argue Black femme folks regardless of gender and non-binary folks’ sexuality — is powerful and beautiful. So much of Black women’s ancestral knowledge and spirituality (yes, INCLUDING Afro-Latinx women) is rooted in our sexuality too.

So is “WAP” also a hymn? Maybe. And if it is, I leave you with this holy verse: “Put him on his knees, give him somethin' to believe in…”

Amen.

I've Written Three Episodes of Television.

In the last 15 months, I’ve written three episodes of television.

Today, I turned in my third script — my first half-hour (ever, if we don’t include the few failed ones on spec, lol) and my first script where the official mandate was, “Bitch, this has to be funny, so write some jokes.” (I still don’t know what a “joke” is. No one will tell me.)

I have been surprised by how my TV writing career has unfolded so far. Somedays, it feels like a whirlwind, but I know it is not. I have truly worked my entire life to get to where I am now. Over seven years ago, I made the decision to leave a job I loved and was good at to “become a TV writer.” Six years ago, I decided to apply to film school. Five years ago, I was gearing up to start film school. And three years ago, soon after graduating from film school and starting my first job in TV, I was eating Shake Shack with two of my best friends. And one of them so subtly dragged me by saying, “Everything is going to happen for you in your 30s.” I remember having two simultaneous reactions: (1) Thanks, bitch, that was rude as hell; and (2) She’s absolutely right.

I didn’t want to wait until 30 to feel like things were “happening.” I was 28 at the time and 30 (let alone 31!) seemed very far away. It wasn’t. And since getting staffed, that time has flown by and very exciting, wonderful, affirming things have happened. Also in a short amount of time. 15 months to be exact. But back then, I could not have not anticipated that two years later I would be staffed as a TV writer. And then within 15 months of getting staffed for the first time, I would have staffed 2.5 more times and written three episode. Or that I would be starting to seriously consider development and preparing to take out my first pitches — which is another step closer to my ultimate goal/dream of being a creator, showrunner, and executive producer. Or that I would be teaching my second TV writing class at USC in 11 days.

I hoped that when my time came, I would be ready. I hoped that I would not fuck it up; that I would be successful. I hoped that I would work on quality shows that I believed in and were passionate about. I prayed that I would work with and for good, smart, kind, talented people. I prayed that each job would feel like preparation for that ultimate/dream goal — even if it takes decades for me to get there. And I prayed that along the way, I’d surround myself with an incredible tribe. I prayed I’d stay rooted to where I came from. I prayed that I wouldn’t have to sacrifice my conscience or my healing or my love or my wholeness to have this career.

So far, the hoping and praying has worked. And my best friend, though a ruthless bitch, was a bit of a prophet.

I am a grateful heart.

P.S. Because I’ve also written about my (nonexistent) love life, I leave you with this text I just sent a friend, which is a BONUS true thing for today:

I also added: Yes, the way I talk about my own queerness is problematique. Because I KNOW MYSELF.

Random Things I Learned Too Late.

I am sleepy. I need to working right now, but I knew if I didn’t take the time to do this post right now, I’d forget. And I’m trying to make this a daily and automated habit, so… Here’s a random list of things I’ve learned, but learned too late.

1. You can call almost any company you pay money to and get them to reduce your bill if you ask nicely enough and don’t give up. It might take a while, but it always works.

2. If the pizza box has grease stains on it, it’s not recyclable.

3. Cats can have anal gland problems just like dogs do.

4. Most people respect folks who don’t relinquish their power and stand firmly in their principles. They may not like you or agree with you. But they’ll respect you.

5. You cannot make someone love you just by being nice or hanging around or doing kind things for them or loving them first. You also cannot make someone love you the way you want to loved. They have to do it themselves, or you have to keep it pushin’.

6. If you need help, you have to ask for it.

7. You’re supposed to fill up your car tires with air routinely. (I do not, but you’re supposed to.) You don’t have to pay to do it at the gas station — they just want you to.

8. Most advice we receive about dieting, nutrition, and healthy eating is not only wrong — it further damages our metabolisms and abilities to eat healthy.

9. Most things in life that make us better, happier, healthier, kinder, more responsible, and more whole are really fucking hard. Growing up is really fucking hard. Healing is really fucking hard. Taking ownership of your life is really fucking hard. Choosing yourself is really fucking hard. Following your dreams is really fucking hard. Admitting when you’re wrong is really fucking hard. Backing your shit up with actions is really fucking hard. Staying engaged and conscientious with the world and communities around you is really fucking hard.

10. The key to healthy, clear skin is MOISTURIZER. Not exfoliant. Not cleanser. Keep yo’ shit moisturized.

That is all for now.

I Now Lack Patience for…

This odyssey of 2020 has been an impeccable even if brutal teacher. Everyday, I learn something new: about myself, about the world, about the people I know and love — and often, about a lot of shit that completely unknown to me. While I am not grateful for the pain, loss, suffering, and uncertainty this year has shat on all of our doorsteps, I am grateful for the moments that I have been allowed to journey deep within.

Like many of us, something broke open for me in the wake of George Floyd’s death. It wasn’t just the national uprising here in the U.S. or the global protests or the conversations we were all having. It wasn’t just the heartbreak or the rage or the weariness. It honestly felt like the clock had run out.

For the past couple of years, I had believed that there would be time to fight and to labor and to tear down and to rebuild after — after I had gotten staffed, after I had lost weight, after I had paid off my student loan bills. After surviving a depression that in some ways nearly killed me, I had adopted one of Audre Lorde’s best and most provocative ideas: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

I had confused political disengagement with self-preservation. I had convinced myself that somehow the immediate threat of Black death and Black destruction and Black dehumanization was out there somewhere. That it would not show up at my feet. That it would not take me or the ones I loved. That it could tamed as we all tried to survive a global pandemic.

I was wrong.

Suddenly, there was no more after. Black people were being murdered through state-sanctioned and extrajudicial violence during a pandemic. Businesses and schools and stores were shut down. And Black people were still being murdered (while also being disproportionately infected and affected by this virus).

And so, I started fighting again. I joined direct actions. I donated to organizations that were doing the work I could not on my own. I amplified voices and ideas and solutions. It was not only an urgent response, but it was also life-preserving. Because the thing that white people still do not get about the lived experiences of “othered”/”colored” folks — and yes, particularly Black and Indigenous folks — is that it is not only the noose or the bullet or the chokehold that kills us. It’s the very design of white supremacy that seeks to eradicate us.

There’s not an aspect of systemic racism that does not make it harder for me to live and thrive in this country and in this world. And there’s no aspect of this world and the way we live our lives that isn’t touched — or better yet, infiltrated by and infused with — systemic racism.

And now that I have fully come to accept that, I have lost my patience for most white people’s learning curve in this moment. I know it’s messy and problematic and controversial to say that, but it’s true. Every time I have to explain myself or my experiences or my pain to a white person, it literally feels like they are taking up time and energy — precious and futile — that could lent to some other endeavor or purpose. Every time I have to explain the experiences or pain of people who are not me, but who I feel a kinship to and responsibility for because they are also “othered” or marginalized — it feels the same.

Toni Morrison said it better than I ever could or ever will: “The very serious function of racism … is distraction. It keeps you from doing your work. It keeps you explaining, over and over again, your reason for being. Somebody says you have no language and so you spend 20 years proving that you do. Somebody says your head isn’t shaped properly so you have scientists working on the fact that it is. Somebody says that you have no art so you dredge that up. Somebody says that you have no kingdoms and so you dredge that up. None of that is necessary.”

I am working on my ability to still extend grace and empathy and patience to white people. Not because they are owed that from me as a Black person, especially in this moment. But because my humanity and theirs depends on it.

But damn, it’s hard.