Justine Samantha

Sade - Soldier of Love (official video) I’m in the mood for ...

Mon, 01 Mar 2010 12:51:34 -0500

Sade - Soldier of Love (official video)

I’m in the mood for Sade. Maybe it’s because I’m really upset and when I’m really upset I turn to easy listening.

I had a huge fall out with my mother this morning. It was probably one of the worst arguments...

Mon, 01 Mar 2010 12:46:00 -0500

I had a huge fall out with my mother this morning. It was probably one of the worst arguments we’ve ever had considering we got physical. I got thrown out then begged her to let me stay after I cried for a few hours.

Now, I’m at home with a migraine from the yelling and crying. I feel like no one in this household understands or listens. Or at least they don’t make a valid attempt to. At times, I do want to run away. Every three months my parents and I go through this. We’re fine for awhile and then we start to have these insane and uncontrollable arguments.

Maybe moving out is the best option but I know that right now, I’m only financially stable enough to live at home. I don’t have the means to move out quite yet.

I’m not sure what to do. I’m never sure what to do.

Forgive and forget.

Thu, 25 Feb 2010 20:00:00 -0500

I’m not the most forgiving person. If need be, I can hold a grudge for years. I suppose I have a lot of pride and there is a certain amount of satisfaction I get out of knowing that I hold the power by not forgiving someone. It is fucked up. I know that. I just don’t like forgiving especially if it means erasing the fact I’ve been hurt. Maybe it’s extreme but realistically some people apologize and don’t mean it. I have a firmer belief in actions speaking louder than words and if you hold true to your apology your behavior will show that. You shouldn’t have to beg for my forgiveness. Show me something that proves you won’t be the person you were, the person that nonchalantly hurt me.

I’ve been hurt by guys time and time again and that’s the main reason I can shut down the way I do once I’ve been emotionally damaged.

The last guy I was “with”, I cared about deeply. I won’t pretend like I wasn’t attached to the guy but after three months I was ready to get married. He planted that idea in my head and I’ve never been someone to distrust what is being assured or take anything with a grain of salt. I believe you, point blank.

The things he told me held weight so when we parted ways and he left me for someone else I was furious and devastated. I figured out ways to move on but never really got over the ways he took me on a ride and wasted my time and well, love. Within that time frame of moving on (about 2 months or so) he constantly contacted me through email with apologies. I never directly accepted his apology but continued to talk to the guy. In my mind, he was never going to hear the words “you’re forgiven” because he had committed what I deem the ultimate crime: left me for someone else.

Selfish, yes but I didn’t care and still don’t.

To this day, I can’t say if I forgive the guy or if I’m okay with the way he handled things. I hear the way he talks about her and it just makes me boil. Mind you, it has nothing to do with her. It’s the principle. It’s the fact, I was led to believe he wanted a future with me but behind my back was telling someone else the same thing. Or it could be that for weeks after us, I felt unworthy of love or a relationship. Clearly that’s not true but it’s the fact he gave so many broken promises that the end of “us” was quite literally (in my mind) the end of the world. Maybe it’s the fact he knew the way I valued my love and my tears and he just blew it off.

Sometimes I want to be the bigger person and just apologize for playing the role of the bitter ex but a huge part of me feels like I’m condoning what he did and I certainly don’t. It’s not okay to lack consideration for one person’s feelings. Now, I don’t even think twice about what we had because that’s all it is: the past.

However, I constantly find myself infuriated with what he did and how he ended up being my last straw when it came to men. I’m not the same person I was with that guy and I’m never certain if it’s a bad thing or a good thing. I’m emotionally disconnected. I dispose of men. I don’t care to be in a relationship or find love.

And in the scheme of things I know that he just changed me from the girl that cared about everyone to a woman that could careless and sometimes I think this is why I really can’t even stand to look at the guy let alone forgive him.

It’s less about not being able to move on but knowing that while he is happy. I’m ambivalent. I’m neither here nor there when it comes to love. This is what I can not forgive.

Online relationship.

Wed, 17 Feb 2010 21:56:00 -0500

I was in an online relationship. I used to call it a long-term relationship because of the shame. I was falling for someone I had essentially never met and I was certain that to others would deem the escapade silly and stupid. Now, looking back, I can’t say that it wasn’t.

I was completely naïve and probably should have listened to my friends when they said that I was wasting my time and efforts on someone I couldn’t reach out and touch.

I was completely enamored by the guy though. I would wake up hoping there was a new email in my inbox and go to bed doing the same. He made me feel beautiful and loved – or so I thought. I gave up going out just to spend all day exchanging lengthy emails with someone I wasn’t certain was real but had made real in my mind.

At the time, I was too caught up to realize I just wanted someone even if it meant I could only converse with the person through social networks, instant messaging and email. It was pathetic but back then, no one could really sway my feelings.

To this day, I do not know what his voice sounds like or if he’s even the person he claims to be. It’s something that remains a mystery.

When things ended between him and me, I learned about self-love. I was so deprived of it that I was willing to settle. I became more aware of just how desperate I was. I never really viewed it as that because well, no one really wants to say they are desperate or needy but truth is I was. I needed men in anyway shape or form. I sought a lot of approval through relationships of any kind. It was like some sort of justification for my ability to be loved and love back however, I forgot to love myself.

Afterwards I vowed to regain focus. I think this is why I’m okay with saying I was in an online relationship. It taught me something valuable. I took with this quote-on-quote relationship what I hadn’t taken with any other relationship I’d ever been in. I truly learned the meaning of self-respect and devotion.

And in a way, I’m grateful for the three month online relationship.

One night stand.

Mon, 15 Feb 2010 13:23:00 -0500

I scan the room hoping to see a potential – no one – I take a sip from my red cup and walk to the kitchen of the hotel. Leaning on the counter, I try to chug the rest of the liquor in my cup. Being drunk will erase the awkward silence filling the room. I hear a knock at the door and turn around. My body is hot. I’m getting drunk. I look into the peep hole, unable to focus my sight. I open the door and meet eyes with a built, muscular, light skinned boy decked in Ralph Lauren. I let the words, “you’re cute” fall from my mouth. He thanks me and says, “Likewise.”

He’s mine.

He walks in and finds a seat by the kitchen. I smile flirtatiously in his direction completely ignoring the presence of the girl he showed up with and turn to the refrigerator searching for more liquor, anything – I need to be drunk, I need to be brave. I decide on a Corona. I pop off the cap with my teeth hoping to impress a few of the males that are standing around me but more specifically the light-skin boy. It works. I shut out everyone from my peripheral focusing on his presence. I can feel his eyes running up and down my body. He’s observing. Good. He likes what he sees. I’m not quite sure of this, yet.

I walk over to the table he’s sitting at. I suddenly become aware of the fact I don’t look as slutty as I’d like to – I should have worn my American Apparel dress. I’m wearing jeans with a sequined off the shoulder top and underneath a body-shaper to hide the fact I’m bloated. I look into his eyes noticing the sexual attraction.

I take a sip from my Corona wishing I had slipped a slice of lime inside. I habitually lick my lips craving the citrus from the lime but instead feeling warm beer on my upper lip.

He smiles. I ask where he goes to school to keep the conversation light. He says, “University of Connecticut”. I smile. He’s smart. I continue to ask what his major is and he says, “I’m pre-med.” At this point, the liquor has fully settled into my blood stream. I am impressed. I spit out the nickname “doctor”. He delivers a laid back laugh, one I’d expect from a guy as good looking as himself. He says he’s in a frat. Not my thing but for whatever reason, this trivial fact doesn’t turn me off. I forget he’s with someone – a girl. I forget anyone is in the room. I put my hand to my mouth. The words “I want this one” echoes in my mind. I abruptly leave our conversation and walk to the bedroom getting stopped along the way by a guy that had made it clear he wanted to hook up. I pull my arm away and continue to walk searching for my friend. I find her along with a couple of old friends from high school. It’s obvious to everyone in the room I’m drunk. I don’t care. I just want to take the doctor home. I say, “I want the doctor. Isn’t he gorgeous?” I stare blankly hoping to receive a positive response from my girl friends. They nod. I’ve gotten the okay – an unreliable sign of approval but approval nonetheless.

I stay in the room for awhile considering my options. How can I go home with this gorgeous 20 year old? The place is stuffed with people. The music loud. The suite well over capacity. This party is going to end soon but I’m too lost in my own fantasy. I hear the host – my close friend – shout, “You all need to shut up, the cops are on their way.”

My concern goes straight to losing the opportunity to fuck the pre-med student. I think his name is [name redacted]. I don’t remember.

A few moments later a knock sounds at the door. It’s the cops. Fuck!

My friends and I quickly grab our belongings as we are escorted out. I scan the room before we leave the suite for the doctor. He’s not there. I suddenly recall his saying he had to walk his friend down. She’s his friend – what a relief. We head to the sixth floor hoping to escape the cops and stay overnight at the Beacon, as my friends and I had initially planned. We find a laundry room on the floor below the suite with benches and decide to seek refuge there. Sitting down, I start to gush about the doctor. I still can’t recall his name. No one seems to cares. I continue to talk and talk while taking off my heels and pulling my tweed flats from my overnight bag.

The sound of feet shuffling down the hall become aware. I stop talking. The cops come in. “Nice try, you all could have gotten away with it had we not decided to check this floor. You all have to go.” We get up and head to the elevator and giggle as we share an uncomfortable ride down to the lobby with the police officers.

We get downstairs and are asked to wait outside. It’s January and the weather is far from pleasant. The wind hits my cheeks and makes my eyes water. I wipe a tear. I stand with a friend. Our arms linked together waiting to hear word of what the plan for the rest of the night is. From the corner of my eye I recognize a built frame – its doctor. I remove my arm from my friend’s and extend it to the doctor. He takes it. The rest of the group meets us at the corner and we begin walking to the car. There aren’t enough seats. Out of drunken confidence, I offer to sit on someone’s lap. Doctor happily obliges. I am overwhelmed by the thought of sitting on his crotch contemplating how to sit so that I stimulate an erection within the 35 minute drive home from the Upper West Side.

We pile in. I sit on his lap. I ask if I’m heavy. He says no. I’m relieved. I’m uncomfortable as the small Honda hits pot holes I bounce. Nothing attractive about this situation although from the stiff I feel underneath my ass, I can tell otherwise. The music is playing. I hum along trying to distract myself. We talk about the party. I remain silent. Thinking and hoping and constantly being reminded that he had a hard on.

We drop off our friend in Harlem. I get off his lap. Comfort. I look over and smile. It’s all I can do, smile. I have nothing profound to say other than the fact I want to be under the covers of this man’s sheets. We start a conversation about jobs and school. I find an opening to say something that the doctor might acknowledge. “I’m a freelance writer and do public relations. I work from home.” He nods. Is he impressed? I can’t tell.

We then move on to a conversation about cars. He says he just got a new BMW. I’m completely in awe. I’m usually not impressed but something about this is attractive. I imagine making out in his car. I consider the possibility of giving a hand job that would send him into to delusion and being returned the favor of oral pleasure.

It’s happening. It’s happening, right now.

He leans over and asks if he can drive me home. I agree with a nod. He lives close enough. I trust the situation. We have mutual friends. Not logical but, I’m drunk. I’m as theoretical as a drunk can be.

We drive to the Mamaroneck train station. We drive slowly searching for his BMW. I’m too dazed to even recognize the cold seeping through the car doors. I want to rip my clothes off now. I can feel the sexual tension rising from my loins. My mouth is pursed. I have nothing to say. I’m too overwhelmed with the reality of all of this. We spot his car. It’s black and hard to miss. The BMW emblem gleams against the moonlight. I am anxious. I want to get out of this car. I want to fuck. At this point, I’m all too aware of the fact I haven’t had sex in nearly 8 months. I begin to frantic. I hope I remember how to properly deliver a blow job. I can’t mess this up. He’s a catch or the very least, a future sex buddy.

We get out the car and my friend asks if I’m certain I want to go. I say yes quickly and slide over to hop out the car. I walk to the passenger side of his BMW and wait for him to press door unlock. The wind goes straight through my jacket. I ignore it. I wave to my friends and they speed off. This is it. It’s now or never.

He turns on the car and we sit for awhile waiting for it to heat up. He asks nonchalantly if I want to “kick it”. I look over hoping that he can see the desire in my eyes although I’m positive he won’t – I’m doubt my sex appeal and always have.

I say, “Sure” in hopes of coming off equally as care-free as he does.

We drive for five minutes. It’s freezing in his car. I have the chills. I try to keep from letting out a noise in response to the cold air that has engulfed my entire body. I want to remain down to earth. I want to be the woman that doesn’t give a fuck about anything even though with all the thoughts, I care about a lot – my appearance, if I’m saying the right thing. Everything depends on this. Maybe too much depends on this. I’m going back to my old ways, my dependence on men for acceptance. The need is greater because I’ve lost weight. I need men to notice my presence.

We get to his house. I grab my bag trying to keep all my shit inside the small vinyl American Apparel tote. My heel is peeping outside the zipper.

I eventually get out the car and follow as he walks to his front door. His home seems decent sized - an average Westchester County home. We go inside. His house smells amazing. You can tell he’s Jamaican because the smell of jerk chicken lingers. I look around quickly noticing childhood pictures of him on the wall. I smile at one image and he leads me to his bedroom.

We get inside. It’s huge – messy but huge. I don’t get too distracted by the clutter for I am not the neatest person in the world.

I ask to use the bathroom. Assuming it’s outside his bedroom, I head for the door. He points to the bathroom in his bedroom. I turn around and quickly get my jeans off and wiggle out of my Spanx. The beer is wearing off. I’m becoming more and more coherent. I take a look at my ass in my thong in the mirror making sure everything is in place and the strings are tied. I stuff the Spanx in my bag and slip back into my jeans. I look back in the mirror to make sure my extensions aren’t falling out. I’m satisfied with my appearance. Surprisingly my make-up is perfectly intact.

I open the door and turn off the light; he looks up from his bed. I start making small talk about his bedroom furniture. This is uncomfortable. He listens and explains that it was his parents’ master bedroom but they expanded the house so it became his room. He walks over to bring his lips to mine cutting me off mid response. My body senses his presence. I no longer remember what I was going to say. It doesn’t matter.

He separates my pursed lips to make an opening for his tongue which I accept.

I ask him to turn off the light and while his back is turned hop in his bed. The room goes dark. I can’t believe I’m doing this. He jumps in and we begin to make out. It feels so juvenile – sloppy kissing and groveling hands. I may as well be in high school again.

I think of if he’s going to call the next day if I do this so, I ask. He gives a weak excuse of going back to school. I know in that moment, this is a one night stand of sorts. I start remove every single thought from the night and lean down and kiss him again. I think I don’t care but a huge part of me does. I had vowed to never sleep with someone without having an emotional connection and here I was in the bed of this 20 year old ready to give up everything I had long contemplated during my consecutive months of celibacy.

I can feel his hands going down to my pants. I help. I take off the pants revealing black lace panties with pink accents. He slips his hands into my panties. His hand feels warm. I am reminded of the wonders of fingering and let his hand inside. He’s good, the strokes rhythmic. I close my eyes not thinking of anything but the pleasure. I groan slightly and feel his lips against my neck. I’m acting like I want this even though my mind is telling me no. I feel like a really bad health class video – the intellectual girl that makes the dumb decision of hooking up with some random guy at a party. He removes his hand. I open my eyes. He reaches for a condom. “Wait,” I say softly, still uncertain of if I want to go through with this.

He says, “What?” puzzled. I forgot, men grow impatient when they are in danger of a severe case of blue balls.

I say, okay. He attempts to put it in and it’s painful. I feel like a born again virgin. This is what months of deprivation will do. He apologizes and tries again. He says that with his long term ex girlfriend, he never had to use condoms so he wasn’t used to it. I grow frustrated as he continues to try. After all that thought and planning, it’s not happening. Eventually we change positions banking on more success with doggy. It goes in for a moment. And then, he grows aggravated.

I’m pissed but patient. I want to have sex. He seemed skillful at a glance but I suppose my confidence in reading people was failing. I remain on all fours, trying to think of something encouraging but nothing is good enough to redeem his masculinity in this moment.

The lyrics coming from the radio he had turned on earlier blare through the speakers, “You gon’ think I invented sex…” I want to laugh at the irony of all this but instead I hold on to it by biting my cheeks.

I utter, “Damn those Italian made condoms.”

Realizing I had spoken unnecessarily. I close my mouth. He says, “Yea, this just isn’t happening.” I let out an impulsive sigh that I wish I could take back. He can read my aggravation. I’ve never been all that good at hiding how I feel.

I lean up and search for my underwear in the sea of sheets and blankets. I spot them. I quickly slip them on and lay back down and close my eyes for a minute letting the reality of still being celibate settle in – it only went in for a few seconds, it doesn’t count.

He says we have to leave. I think of how I hate being rushed and could probably punch his face in but I’m reminded that he is good looking and much like myself (based on the bit of conversation we shared at the party) so I get up and put my jeans on in front of him and he watches. It’s not as thrilling as when he watched me take my jeans off.

We head out the front door of his house as silently as we can, trying our best not to wake his parents.

We get to his car and share a silent ten minute ride (because of the lights) to my house which isn’t that far from his.

He asks for directions. I have nothing to say. I vigorously debate asking for his number and realize that his looks, car and our similar situation present an opportunity to get a date out of this guy.

We stop in front of our house and I say, “What’s your number?” He gives it and I hop out and tiredly say “bye”. He speeds off leaving me staring at the back of his glistening charcoal grey beamer.

I’m ready for bed. I hope he calls.

Days later I learn that he is interested from a mutual friend (the host of the hotel party). I await his calls. It never comes.

"I think we can all agree that sleeping around is a great way to meet people."

Mon, 15 Feb 2010 02:42:08 -0500

“I think we can all agree that sleeping around is a great way to meet people.”

- Chelsea Handler

Dealbreaker.

Mon, 15 Feb 2010 01:25:47 -0500

Dealbreaker: He didn’t have the tunes to set the mood

My logical self should have known better than to date someone that I only had one commonality with, that commonality being: mirror image iTunes playlists. Yes, the infamous (and weak), “we like the same music so let’s date!” bit. I wouldn’t necessarily call this a gimmick or ploy; it’s more like a dating death trap because it never works but despite being fully aware of this I was willing to go with it in hopes of a relationship, miraculously sprouting from my music obsession.

This guy – we’ll call him Fred – knew of every little underground indie band that I raved about, Fred even had the same infatuation with the early 90s hip hop that I did. It felt like love at first external hard drive information exchange. First date and it seemed like our relationship was already heading in the right direction.

We talked on the phone every night after that and always based on the same topic – music. One night while on the phone, he decided to invite me over to his Jersey City home. I agreed. In the heat of the moment going over felt right because he was Russian which was enticing (not exactly a romance language but good enough for me), a good looking guy and thus far the conversation was good (even though it was becoming redundant). Going over to his place meant, a chance to get some action. I was more than down for this plan – especially because I hadn’t gotten any “play” in months.

I went over and was welcomed with a drink offer – which I declined – and a hug. We went to his bedroom, our first order of business, find some mood music – naturally we needed music being that this is the reason we decided to start dating. We opted to start our “hang out” with The Beatles, I Want to Hold Your Hand which was on some playlist he said he’d set up for the date. I was okay with this because, well, The Beatles are classic and I definitely wanted to hold Fred’s hand (amongst other things).

We jammed for a bit and then this jam session turned into making out – as expected. Out of nowhere, I hear, Peaches, I Don’t Give a F*ck blaring from the laptop while we’re passionately making out. What a romantic playlist. I like the song, but seriously, how inappropriate. I attempted to ignore the trash but the lyrics, “I don’t give a f*ck about my reputation” played repetitively. It was awkward to say the least and I only made it more awkward by stopping mid-kiss and cracking up hysterically which was received with a blank stare and shrug of the shoulder. We continued making out and pretended what happened, didn’t.

I never called him back after that day. I felt like the song was indirectly trying to tell me something, something along the lines of, his horrid playlists shouldn’t match his poor making out skills.

Mirror playlists do not equate to relationships, apparently.

Clipse feat. Cam’ron & Pharrell - Popular Demand...

Sat, 13 Feb 2010 14:10:27 -0500

Clipse feat. Cam’ron & Pharrell - Popular Demand (Explicit)

I can get used to you if you knew what I used to do

I play this song every time I go to the gym. Even though I steer clear of fast food, this puts me in the mood for a basket of Popeyes chicken.

Valentine's Day.

Fri, 12 Feb 2010 00:59:00 -0500

It’s that time again, the time when I should feel really bad about the fact I’m single and date-less. Yes, Valentine’s Day is this weekend. Am I bummed out that I don’t have anyone to call my Valentine? No. I’ve never been fond of the “holiday” (even as a kid). Perhaps I come off like a bitter woman that had a lot of failed relationships but that’s really only a small piece of the truth.

I think it takes a strong woman to be okay with her solitude especially on a day where everyone seems to flocking for the relationship aisle (which is what my single friends seem to be doing). I’m not into it. In previous years I used to get really worked up and feel bad but this year it’s different because I’m actually happy with myself. I never used to be able to say that with confidence. For me, wanting a Valentine was a reflection of my inability to self-love. I’ve turned over a new leaf and I’m really content with the direction my life is taking. I feel like even hoping for a Valentine to sweep me off my feet this Sunday would be a disservice to how far I’ve come. I’m learning that with matters of the heart it’s much better to let things flow and not be forceful. It’s either there or it’s not.

It’s another year without a Valentine but this year, I simply don’t want one.

"Write what should not be forgotten."

Fri, 12 Feb 2010 00:12:42 -0500

“Write what should not be forgotten.”

- Isabel Allende

Kiss of Life Mixtape by DJ Mars, DJ Finesse and DJ Doc Click for...

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 23:24:50 -0500

Kiss of Life Mixtape by DJ Mars, DJ Finesse and DJ Doc

Click for download

I’ve always been a huge fan of Sade and I must say it’s really nice to see she’s back on the scene schooling everyone that claims to be an R&B artist. I downloaded this as soon as I spotted it. Enjoy.

Rihanna - Rude Boy (official video) This track has been out for...

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 13:47:05 -0500

Rihanna - Rude Boy (official video)

This track has been out for about three days and I’ve already played it to death (I need to stop doing that because by the time it’s on the radio I’m going to hate it). I like the concept of the video and the lyrics are tough. Everyone is saying that she copied M.I.A’s music video but seriously, where has M.I.A been in the past few months. Exactly. It’s really not that big of a deal. Rihanna looks great (even though I wouldn’t consider myself a die hard fan of her as a person) and I’m positive this will be another track that will bring in a lot of success for her.

This makes me want to have sex but a lot of things make me want that…

About.

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 12:24:00 -0500

I’m Justine. I’m 21 years old, live in New York and go to school full time at Pace University in downtown Manhattan with a major in English (focus in literature and writing) and minor in Women & Gender studies. I write for a few online publications and hope to land a gig with a prestigious black magazine or pursue music journalism post graduation but for now, I’m just trying to make it through the last few semesters of school.

I am the epitome of a confused twenty-something. I’m slowly learning to be okay with the fact I’m single and simultaneously discovering the things that make me happy which thankfully don’t include a vibrator or a penis (these are just perks, no?). For the past seven months I’ve been working on losing weight and have since lost 25lbs and gained immense confidence (yes, I once tipped the scales at 165lbs). I still have ten pounds to go which seem to be giving me a rough time but I’m hoping to drop all my negative feelings along with the weight in due time.

To save myself from answering redundant questions I am going to fill in some blanks. I am Puerto Rican and Jamaican. My mother is from Bayamon, Puerto Rico and my father is from Kingston, Jamaica. I’m not bilingual but do know enough Spanish to get by. Yes, my hair is real and no, I’m not wearing contacts. I’m not big on racial debates because I am a believer in all human beings being equal. My ethnicity does not define who I am.

I like to think of myself as sexual liberal but I think that’s just a fancy name I use for my love of all things sexual. I don’t like talking about politics because it usually leads to an argument (which I also hate) so I probably won’t talk too much about the Obama administration or economy and if I do, it will be brief (thankfully for you).

I have eccentric taste in music and movies. I can be a drama queen but I’m blaming that on the fact I’m a Leo and habitually happen to need a lot of attention (don’t worry, it’s not excessive but there, nonetheless). I have undiagnosed attention deficit disorder and lose focus a lot. I read as much as possible and have an infatuation with the poet Virginia Woolf and fiction writer, Isabel Allende.

I cover my mouth with my hands when I laugh which is often. I am not photogenic but still take photos of myself. I’m Catholic and don’t go to church as often as I’d like. No, I won’t push God on you. I watch porn and masturbate impulsively. I am fond of the porn star Sasha Grey. I am talkative. I’m relatively patient with people. I only have a handful of friends and an immense amount of online friends. On my spare time I can be found writing about my sexual escapades, relationships or dates. I have a thing for well-endowed and intelligent men. I’m not tall but for fashion’s sake, I wish I was. I have a shopping problem and I’m starting to think I have a drinking one too.

I plan on writing a book one of these days. I’ll get back to you on that.

Hi.