Confessions of a Food Lover: A 20-Day Raw Vegan Detox

May 22, 2020

I’ve always loved cooking. Working with raw ingredients to create a meal that takes me on a soul hugging journey has always made me feel like a magician. I feel like I’m in another world, experimenting with seasonings and flavors from a variety of cultures. It’s a mystical party on my palate.

Being quarantined because of the “Rona” forced me to spend more time celebrating my love of food by working on my Top Chef skills. I admit, during these last few months, I have experimented with recipes ranging from novice to expert. I’ve had some wins and took some private Ls, but the tried and true requirement of all of these dishes has been flavor. Soul-hugging, palate-pleasing, melt in your mouth delicious flavor.

This culinary adventure started out all but healthy. I mean, I added in some veggies and ate some fruit, but meat and carbs often were the stars of the show. Shrimp and creamy cheddar grits. Grilled ribeye. Sautéed shrimp and spinach. Air fryer pork chops. Lemon pepper salmon. Roasted broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots. Then I tried a vegan curry recipe from the same author, Darius Cooks, of the cheddar grit recipe. I love the depth of flavor he can create and sought to mimic that in my kitchen before making it my own. So this curry recipe packed a taste that almost knocked me out of my socks. The curry boasted bold and deliciously creamy flavors like a comfort food hug.

A couple of weeks after being embraced by my bowl of homemade curry, one of my friends hyped me up to do a 20-day detox with her. At first, I was like, “Girl, hell naw. You know I’m a native Texan, right? Like BBQ is a religion. And you want me to not be just vegan but raw vegan? Have you lost your ever-loving mind? Ain’t no way.”

To say I protested is a mild way of putting it. But she hit me with some valid logic. I was recently diagnosed as pre-diabetic. The thought that I may have to take insulin, not be able to drink, and potentially put me at risk for a host of other health issues terrified me and compelled me to take action. And not being able to go to the gym because of the quarantine put me in a place to pack on the pounds and shift that pre-diabetic state to full blown diabetes. At home workouts posed a challenge because I truly was unmotivated to consistently do it. At the gym, I had accountability, whereas at home, I had to be that for myself. During the quarantine, I hadn’t truly gained any weight but definitely was on track to pick up some pounds. This cleanse offered me a chance to try a different diet and have some necessary accountability.

Throughout the detox, to say I was hungry would be an understatement. Initially I didn’t have much of an appetite. But by day 3, I constantly snacked on fruits, veggies, almonds, cashews, walnuts. I drank a gallon of water a day. I sipped caffeine free herbal teas, hot water with grade A maple syrup, lemon juice, and cayenne pepper. I fought to be consistent, backsliding on cooked foods now and again. But I was determined to finish this challenge.

At the end of the cleanse, I’ve lost 2 and 3/4 inches off of my waist, seen a surge in my energy, and have a new respect for veggies. I ate veggies before, but this cleanse has opened my eyes to incorporate more of them into my day to day cooking and motivated me to try more veggie-rich recipes.

My overall thoughts are that raw vegan is too extreme of a lifestyle change, and the allegedly clean-ish menu I was eating did not serve my health and fitness goals. So that means I have to find something in between that is balanced, nutritious, and tastes good. A raw vegan diet requires a lot more planning, preparation, and is too restrictive than what I prefer. I think the detox worked well, because I was working from home and had constant access to the kitchen and a bathroom. Now begins my exploratory journey of developing a healthy lifestyle change that is truly sustainable for me.

Come Get Your Coworker – Office Edition

March 28, 2020

Per usual I was having a conversation with a friend about the interesting personality types you come across at work. It was colorful to say the least and gave way to the list below. It’s not all inclusive but definitely a good starting point. If you see some you know, feel free to add them in the comments.

Nice Nastiness: being pleasantly rude. The new workplace acts as an open-arm welcome center for this type. But the worst part is finding out that the ringleader of this type is your boss. Proceed with caution.

Mobile Shade Trees: those that seem to pop up in situations that really don’t pertain to them for the sole purpose to throw shade and negativity on a situation. Constantly being the pessimist in all possible ideas. AKA an Umbrella.

Seasoned Vet: this person is in training with you, but thinks that they know everything. He or she is probably old enough to have played spades with Noah on the ark. You can’t tell ‘em nothing. You just take their input with a grain of salt and as a bargaining chip for entry into heaven.

Overly Sanctified Sinner: brags about how Jesus can make a lane out of no lane, give you an extra blunt out your dime sac. Uses their Biblical knowledge, or lack there of, to justify their misdeeds and illegal activities. You constantly look at this fool and wonder how they passed the drug test in the first place. General reply: “Ain’t no tellin’,” or “Don’t question God’s work.” Furrowed brow of confusion and disbelieving shakes of the head.

Purposelessly Angry: this person has a difficult name and has the nerve to get mad when no one can pronounce it correctly. Deep inside you imagine it to be a deep seeded hatred for one’s mother or father for their inability to give them a name that’s gentler on the palette. This person is always ready to go from 0 to 100. The Overly Sanctified Sinner usually tells this person, “Calm Down, killah.”

Black Donald Trump: woman with a God awful lace-front. She wears nice suits with fan-like fake lashes and a Pepe LePew replica atop her head. Has the nerve to get upset when no one wants her hairstylist/niece’s number.

Brother AC (Afro Centric): office dreads. Everything is, “Yes, my sistah.” But the word on the street is he’s the office little brother that everyone pitches in to help. He’s a self-proclaimed visionary that lacks a clear vision.

Word on the Street: the office gossip. She can tell you about any and everything going on. She knows about the new compliance updates before compliance. Whoever she gets her information from is 99.9% accurate.

Keeps It Too Real: holds on to hood beliefs as if their black card is constantly under review and silently being audited for their inability to subscribe to every black stereotype. See Ask Rachel Dolezal memes.

The Optimist: always sees the silver-lining in company decisions; also known as The Company Man/Woman. No error could be found with any poorly developed idea that comes down from the top. Generally has an all-around upbeat demeanor.

Unbothered: does not care about any office decorum. Marches to the beat of her own drum and is oblivious to the world around her. Is likely to take her laptop to the bathroom during an office video conference. See Jennifer.

Sour Patch: this person is passive-aggressive. Tends to send emails with conflicting directions. Can be mean one moment and sweet the next. You are leery interacting with them because their moods shift suddenly and unexpectedly, hence the name Sour Patch.

The Office Snitch: this person was a tattle-tell as a child and grew up to be one as well. Is always seen with the supervisor, typically after having lunch with Word on the Street. Does not drive to work as his or her car has been keyed and tires slashed on more than one occasion.

“Awkward Goodbyes” a work of fiction

February 16, 2020

My right foot pounded out of the blue; I knew without a doubt someone had just died. You see, my grandmother had been a quite a superstitious woman. And for your foot to start hurting, without you injuring it, meant someone died, a number called home. I wonder, “Who answered the call?”

I shrug it off and continue on my way to the grocery store. I mean eating was still required for the living. I mean I’m cheffing it up tonight. I’m stuffing X-large shrimp with crabmeat tonight. I’m collecting mixed greens, shelled pistachios, Gorgonzola cheese, sliced red grapes, chopped pears, shredded carrots, and dried cranberries in a large bowl. I’m dropping a spoonful of a wonderful, palate balancing sherry balsamic vinaigrette into the same bowl, covering the top layer of ingredients before it is flipped and twirled and tossed, fully dressing the salad.

As I round the last aisle of the grocery store, in search of the delicious dressing, my phone buzzes. I dig for it in my oversized purse. I scrape my hand back and forth on the inside. I remove keys. The buzzing grows in strength. I find my wallet and tampons and pens and lotion and tissue, but I still can’t find the damn phone. It’s like a fucked up game of hide and seek. Bzzzz! Bzzzz! Bzwahahaha. It’s like the stupid thing is taunting me, laughing at my inability to pull it from this stupid shopping bag with straps. Then of course it stops.

I drop everything back into the bag, saying forget it. “Now where is that salad dressing I like?” I furrow my brow as I scan the rows of a thousand and one different types of ranch- bacon, blue cheese bits, lite, fat free. “Fat free ranch?” Yeah, right.

I slide down to the balsamics, the cream free choices of flavor. I soon as I grab the dressing I want, the stupid phone groans. I find it this time. I’ve missed three calls from my mother.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask after dialing her back.

“Rosie just died,” she says rather calmly.

“Oh…are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I went to see her in the home yesterday. She wasn’t doing well anyway so it wasn’t a surprise,” my mom’s cool, almost nonchalant.

“I’m sorry to hear that. When’s the funeral?”

“Her real kids are saying next weekend, but you and I both know it’ll be at least two weeks because Rosie ain’t have no damn insurance. They gone say all the kids should put in to bury her.” I hear her light a cigarette. I imagine her long fingers finagling a Virginia Slim from its pack as she’s lying on her back in the waterbed staring at the ceiling fan, the cordless phone pinched between her left shoulder and her cheek. I imagine a paper bag next to her filled with the chewed off tops of jalapeno peppers.

“How do you feel about that?” I head over to the seafood section. I glance at my reflection in the glass display, my face over the shrimp.

“I ain’t contributing shit,” she exhales into the phone. I hear her spitting into a bag. I shake my head, as she confirms that she’s still eating raw jalapenos after the doctor told her to stop. “Spicy food and ulcers do not mix,” he’d said. “I’m only here once doc, and I’m going to enjoy it while I am,” had been her reply. I brought up the conversation afterwards and was told to live my life while she lived hers. And that was the end of the discussion.

I continue to stare into the raw seafood filled case, wondering if my mom’s features – her broad nose, thick lips, and naturally arched eyebrows – in my face will become more dominant. I remember posting a pic of my mom when she was 24 on my Instagram page and having my friends think it was me before reading the caption, “Mommy when she was my age.” Their comments saying, “ooo, thas yo twin,” “she spit you out,” “no denying that’s yo mama,” “I had to do a double take,” and my favorite, “feel like looking in a mirror huh?”

“All the kids she kept and raised need to contribute. Shit, she was they mama. Not mine,” she spit out.

I’d met Rosie maybe twice that I can remember. Luckily my mom didn’t look much like her. I assumed she resembled her father, but I’d never met him. She’d only met him once.

“I understand,” I pick my words carefully, “do you feel anything for her?” I point to the x-large, headless shrimp and motion to Tony, the seafood guy, with two raised fingers. He nods and smiles at me. I come in at least once a week and he’s always the person to help me. I grab the Louisiana Spicy Crab Boil. It’s the perfect seasoning for the shrimp.

“You mean like Granny? Hell no!” she simmers down. “But I feel something. Like any possibility of her ever being more than a face that I’ve expected so much from will never happen. She’ll never live up to that expectation and I just gotta accept it.

“A part of me always wondered about that. How it would be to have the person that packed me around in her stomach for nine months care more about me than herself. But shit,” she exhales, “she gave me up at three and a half weeks. And she went on to have five more kids. She kept them. All of them.” Her voice drops an octave as if she were hardening herself to these emotions, suppressing the resentment.

“But she’s dead now and I’m fifty-nine years old. I let go of her ever changing long time ago. Shit, hope is an emotion best put to practice with things that are actually of importance. I had Granny and she loved me like she birthed me,” she says with certainty.

Tony hands me the shrimp and winks at me. I nod and smile and drop the package into my basket.

“I love you too, old lady,” I say sweetly.

“You betta! And I ain’t old,” she chuckles into the phone, allowing the sentimentality to leave the conversation. I laugh with her.

“Yeah besides that, I called to see if you would come down for the funeral. Hell, I know this will be the closest thing that side of the family will ever have to a reunion,” she blows out.

“I can’t afford the ticket home,” I say.

“That ain’t what I asked you,” she curtly responds. “Will your job let you off?

“It shouldn’t be a problem.” I head over to the checkout. The line is short.

“Well, let me know once you’ve talked to them,” she pauses, “Thank you.”

“Thank you, mom, for everything. I love you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Well, I’m about to checkout. Let me call you when I get home from the grocery store.” I place my items on the conveyor belt.

“Okay, hunnie. Oh one last thing, I’m proud of you, just in case you didn’t already know. Love you too, bye.” She hangs up before I can respond. I smile and drop my phone into my purse. As the items travel closer to the cashier, I scramble through my purse in search of my wallet.

A Moment to Mourn

February 1, 2020

The 24.2 second moment of silence rang echoes of the Dave Foster Wallace piece, “The View from Mrs. Thompson’s”. I sat in a bar with my best friend, unexpectedly watching the memorial portion of the Lakers vs. Trailblazers game. Reverence and respect owned the room. The typical music blaring from the new-aged jukebox replaced with the audio of Usher singing “Amazing Grace” and Ben Hong guiding his bow against the strings of the cello, accompanying a montage of Kobe Bryant speaking about his love and dedication to basketball, interacting with his family, and sharing insights into his desire to be one of the best to ever hold a ball.

The room stills. Appropriate silence given for speeches and emotional pauses. Silent tears holding in the corners of eyes as the bar patrons grieve with those on the screen. LeBron speaking of family and in a collective gathering of strangers that enjoy the spirits and a good sports game, there’s a commonality of respect and mourning. The crowd of the game on screen adorned in 8s and 24s, celebrating Kobe Bryant’s life and legacy. One announcer stating that the sadness was validating what was lost.

For those seconds, the world paused and allowed those grieving to have a moment. And as the players took the court, the moment in the bar returned to its natural, bustling atmosphere. The sound from the Staples Center was muted, and the jukebox music resumed in full swing.

December 1, 2019

Hey Readers! If you haven’t checked out my original post Thoughts on Fear, give it a read. It provides context to getting into this piece. Thanks for checking this out. If you’re not already a subscriber, click the plus square at the bottom of the page so you don’t miss any posts. Happy reading.

I’ve spent prolonged periods of time allowing fear to stifle my progress. I procrastinate and then eventually write the intended task off. I get caught up in the prettiness of the dream and moonwalk away from the discipline to get it done. This journey has been a continuous cycle of inspiration, idea, plan, freak out, then abandon it only to return some time later. I’m in my thirties and have decided to stop playing it safe, to allow myself to fail big or fail small, either way to just enjoy making my imprint on this one time gift called life.

I decided that I want to become the type of person I admire: someone who is courageous and uninhibited with taking risks to achieve their goals and live their dreams. Of course there is some caution that has to be taken, but it’s my time to live life looking ahead and enjoy the moments, instead of staring in the rearview mirror and wondering what if, lamenting on how different my life could have been.

With this newfound, semi-stroke of confidence, I embraced one of the hardest, most terrifying decisions — to move from Houston to Atlanta. My best friend of over thirteen years talked me into it, selling this move as an opportunity to go big because I’d already went home. And even her reasoning took a lot of prodding and reassurance. Simply put, I was mortified about moving to a place where she was the only person I knew. I didn’t have a job, didn’t have a guaranteed path or plan, which is vastly different when compared to moving for school. My mind raced with all of the possibilities of everything going wrong. I’d struggle for cash, wouldn’t be able to pay rent, have my car repossessed, and worst of all, it would irreparably damage our friendship.

As a result, I’d be stagnant and broken. I’d fall into an irreversible state of depression, never write another word, and fail to accomplish any of my personal goals. I wouldn’t be able to take care of myself at all. There weren’t any guarantees with this move. Did I truly have the courage and grit to make the uncertain work? Everything would be up in the air, and I would be forced to fly or to fall.

I decided to take a leap of faith, jump out of my comfort zone, and ship myself across the country. No lie, I was scared shit-less. But not scared enough to stay where I was.

I committed to the process. I sold belongings, gave others away, and packed what I needed into my little SUV and hit I-10 East. The move felt like going into a rehab, removing all of my distractions, well-known excuses, and sense of familiarity. It was a challenge to put it nicely. But this bold move set me on a pathway of courage that I’d lightly travelled before. But the magnitude of this move was much different.

The first thing I had to do was embrace the fears of change and uncertainty. I mean, in actuality, what really is certain aside from death and taxes? I had to get over not having the answers and not knowing all of the steps. I sang a few funeral songs and buried my inner-monologue, the voice that constantly told me I had to know all of the details. A friend told me that knowing everything removes faith from the equation. It meant that I leaned fully on my own understanding, which Proverbs speaks directly against doing. (On a side note, I’d never felt like I’d had to truly come to terms with the state of my faith and my personal relationship with God more than in this transitional process.)

Fast forward to present day, and it’s been a little over a year later and I’ve fell and failed. But, in a loose interpretation of a Ray Bradbury quote, I built my wings on the way down. Each time something set me back, be it traffic, extra work at work, dating, or even an opportunity not panning out, I’ve learned and am still working on not taking the situation personal and thinking failure is the absolute end. Change is the true constant, the guaranteed epithet of life.

By accepting change as constant, it lightened the severity of the punch if my plans did not fall as I saw fit. Accepting change pressed me to become more creative with problem-solving. Accepting change gave me the strength to be confident in my endeavors and in accepting my emotions. Accepting change forced me to accept all parts of myself, my identity, the complexities of my emotions and thoughts, and my quirks — all the things that make me who I am.

This move also opened the door for me to rediscover who I am, what I like, what my energy should be like according to my standards — not anyone else’s. I’m doing the work of improving my mental, spiritual, and physical health. I go to therapy every other week, the gym four to five times a week, two of those days with a trainer, eat mostly clean, pray, and write something every day — even if it is just a sentence.

I’ve made friends as an adult in a new city, which seemed so much easier as a kid. I’m rediscovering what it’s like to be social and engage in activities I enjoy. I have arrived and am prepared to tackle the next challenge life throws at me. Now, instead of being a paralyzing energy that overtakes my body, fear is a point of reference, a set of emotions to unpack. I pull out the layers of what is making me afraid. I process through the fear to move to the next step and the next step and the next step until the task is completed.

The Art of Saying Goodbye

October 26, 2019

I restarted this post several times over the course of the last two months. Writing about life and the loss of it before seemed like an objective sense of emotions I needed to address, an insight I was compelled to provide. But the last two months have brought death closer to my door than warranted — from family to former coworkers to family members of dear friends. It’s been an overwhelming sense that I’ve reached the age where the empty chairs around the family table will consistently remain untouched.

I remember being knee-high to a duck’s ass the first time I realized I was here for some reason. It was a moment that changed me. It might have been the surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins before I had the vocabulary to accurately describe what I felt. My five or six-year-old self sat on the fabric armrest of Granny’s 1985 Monte Carlo. It was the only way I could see over the dashboard and be in the know. We were leaving from visiting one of Granny’s former employers in the nursing home. It amazed me how my grandmother was much older than the frail woman but moved with the vigor of a woman half her age.

No sooner than we neared the train tracks, a few men on bicycles road up, causing Granny to brake and let them pass. The arm of the train signal lowered on the car. The red lights flashed. The train whistled. The car’s engine died. Granny panicked. She turned the key and the engine sputtered. I breathed heavily. She pleaded with the car. The train horn whistled loudly, approaching our stalled car. Granny began to pray and ask God to spare her only granddaughter, to start the car. And sure enough the car started. We moved just in time.

I was crying. Granny was crying. “I hope you know that you have a purpose here and that life can be gone in the blink of an eye,” Granny wiped her face. She was silent, allowing her resolve to return. We drove home in silence, save her humming a spiritual tune.

At that age, I didn’t fully understand that death was a permanent thing. Maybe it was the cartoons or the video games that made me think life could be reset. If you died it wasn’t forever. It also could’ve been because I loved the movie The Goonies and Goonies never say die. But it was at this age and being sidekick to a 76-year-old woman that I grew closely acquainted with the art of saying goodbye.

A few weeks later, Granny and I went to visit the same older woman again. But this time her room was empty, her belongings sorted into different piles. Two middle aged women discussed selling a little stool for a dollar. One of them paused in their sterile conversation, completely void of emotion, to acknowledge my grandmother and tell her that the woman had passed. No one called her. No one let her know that a visit wasn’t needed. That she didn’t have to wake up early that Saturday morning to prepare Chicken and Dumplings to bring. Neither of the two women, who Granny knew by name, who knew Granny came to visit took the time to call her.

With the passing of a loved one, I always feel like one of the many candles illuminating my life has been blown out. Sometimes it’s a surprise, an unexpected extinguish. Other times it’s a prolonged sense of watching their flame flicker until it illuminates no more.

The first emotion that arises is sadness. Its uncomfortable yet familiar embrace, envelopes me. Tears fall from my eyes. I taste their saltiness in the back of my throat. I instantly miss my lost person. I feel a hole where their candle once stood tall and shined brightly. Memories we shared flood my mind like pop-ups on a computer screen. Tears continue to slide down the curves of my face. I think about times shared, the nostalgia of watching their favorite films, eating their favorite meals, laughing at anecdotes and inside jokes. And while I am in these moments of the past that feel protected and locked away, the sadness takes over at the reality of not being able to create any new memories. That the best part of our relationship is behind us. An emptiness arises that I did not invest more time or make more of an effort to create more memories. That makes way for the next emotion — guilt.

In the particular instance of losing my cousin, I feel overwhelmed with guilt. I’d tell her that I’d come to visit and took time for granted. I could name a number of different reasons about why the trip never was planned, why the interest and intention were there but never follow through to make it happen, or even why I feel guilty for never fully investing the time to share flowers with her while she was here instead of exchanging pleasantries and laughs on Facebook. I feel convicted that I should have done more.

Thoughts on Fear

August 18, 2019

For almost the past month, I’ve been struggling to write about fear – how this one word has served to be an overwhelmingly crippling emotion, derailing every goal and ambition I can imagine and even some I’ve yet to fathom. Each time I put pen to paper or sit down in front of my computer screen, fingers lingering against the letters, it’s like all the words and thoughts I have on the subject vanish. Fear materializes as an idea consuming monster with an appetite for any and all forms of productivity. I see it as zombified Pacman, chomping away on the best of plans, the sweetest of intentions. Or Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors, feasting away on the blood sweat and tears of my imagination’s greatest concepts.

I set out to execute a plan. I detail the steps. I consider the research, templates, the whole layout of what I intend to cover. Then it starts.

Knots fill my stomach. My pulse races. My palms sweat. My breathing is heavy, staggering. My mind spins in a million different directions. I’m immensely overwhelmed with the instinct to run, to flee from the danger. I’m in the tight clutch of fear. It’s crippling. It dominates my thoughts, controls my decision-making, or lack thereof, causes me to doubt any and everything. And worse than that fear convinces me that I’ll never be good enough, smart enough, prepared enough, authentic enough, compassionate enough, or strong enough. It convinces me that I’m inherently lacking and incapable of overcoming.

Simply put, fear wreaks havoc on you as a person. If left unchecked, it grows into a prolonged cycle of self-sabotage, negative self-talk, and the inaccurate belief that failure is the end of progress. Like everything that you do will be perfect the very first time. Let’s not forget when fear is loaded with thoughts of how other people perceive you, how others respond to you, and that their beliefs of what you should or could be doing exacerbate an already conflict-filled situation.

At some point for me, the fear turns to anger and that anger becomes fuel to soldier through the doubts and feelings of not being enough. Sometimes that shit works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

The Spider

The following is a fiction piece.

July 18, 2019

It was another night where I’d long for an uninterrupted sleep. Day 57 of a never-ending stretch of the 3:12 am wake up. It didn’t matter if it was a full moon, half moon, rainy, or a clear night sky. Precisely at 3:12 a.m. my rest would be disturbed with a wide-eyed energy that was enough to keep me awake but not enough to summon me to action.

I tried some of everything to ensure a restorative night’s sleep. I took a hot shower. Drank warm milk. Listened to soothing music. Tried chamomile tea, melatonin, valerian root, ZZZquil, Lunesta, you name it. It never failed. Despite how deep the sleep was I continued to wake up at 3:12 a.m.

So last night, I dreamt of a black spider slow dancing along a single thread of a black web. Its strut was graceful, elegant. It had a poise that demanded attention and confidence. I stared at it closely. A tiny crown perched atop its head. Its body shimmered as if slicked with an iridescent topcoat of paint. I studied its movements, sauntering back and forth as if rehearsing choreography for some elaborate concert.

It fascinated me. Its careless demeanor and ability to be present in the thing it was doing. It hyper focused. The spider transformed before me, a graceful member of the ballet, twirling and spinning, crafting more layers to its single thread. It wove a tapestry, something so delicate and marveling. It filled the windowpane with its artwork, creative confidence apparent in every spin, turn, and step. It amazed me. It knew only its purpose – not doubt, insecurity, or fear of messing up. It built this stellar piece alone, not to be admired, appreciated, or even acknowledged. It didn’t worry about criticism or feeling inadequate from the opinion of other spiders. It didn’t get distracted. It danced to the beat of its own soundtrack and allowed its gift to flow freely.

The moment I understood the spider, I got a good night’s sleep.

I Started a Blog

July 8, 2019

After consistent poking and prodding and living in a place of fear, I finally decided to stop pussy-footing around and put myself, specifically my writing, out into the world and see if the dreaming about writing finally can be a creative reality.

So why now? Why a blog? What is this supposed to be? The goal is to create weekly content, either observations, story excerpts, or some form of consistent entertainment on the page. For those that don’t know, my thoughts and ruminations are not for the faint of heart or the easily offended. I came here to speak my mind, unapologetically. I ain’t asking for permission or shrinking myself to make you feel comfortable about what I have to say – Queens don’t ask for authorization or approval.

So welcome. Subscribe. Leave a comment.

Necia Mac Writes

The world through the eyes of a humor filled, Southern Gal!

Author: Necia Mac