The Conscious Movement is Getting Just As Bad As Religion

This ashy Imhotep nonsense is getting out of hand:

No evidence, no sources or references just a bunch of bullshit. He blocked me and changed his Facebook name of course. I was told to “look it up” when demanding for evidence. I was then told to stay in my place and figure out who I am because he builds and destroys. He provided scriptures so I should have known that I wouldn’t have gotten anything I’ve asked for just on that alone.

There’s no such thing as a ‘woke Christian’.

What’s with these conscious blacks that claim they are ‘woke’ but looks to me to be in a coma? Some of you woke black people should seriously consider taking a goddamn nap. I can’t really tell which part of ‘woke’ some of you are. It must be the part that allows you to preach and inject logical fallacies and nonsequiturs into a metaphorical yoni with your third eye and essential oils.

While I’m on the topic of hotep: I hope they realize Egypt isn’t the only place in Africa. They’re so obsessed with this ideology that black people are descendants of Kings and Queens all that ash has clouded their judgment. Stop it. We’re not even from Africa. Listen to me you ashy, delusional, cherry-picking motherfuckas, you’re annoying! Your arguments are pointless, baseless, worthless and useless. This conscious movement is becoming as bad as religion itself. Your proselytizing is unattractive and you should feel bad.

This is just one example, but they run in groups. I’m sure he’ll return under another moniker and will have to run and change his name again.

Why can’t black kids have a Santa that looks like them?

Maybe I should have posted this here.

Black Atheists

Let’s put religion to aside here for a second, mostly because I’m black, first.

How foolish of me to believe that there would at least a little reprieve from all the outlandish and ridiculous amount of racism people of color have endured all year long around the holiday season. You online trolls have a lot of nerve.

Let me show you something:

black santaBlack Santa

Guess how many fucks were given? None! Guess who ‘member sitting on either lap? No one, not even me; I don’t ‘member. Guess who lived to see many Christmases after that without any psychological Santa trauma? Me. I’m fine. You know why? I didn’t care! Kids don’t care what color Santa Claus is, you do! The other 364 days of the year we’re told not to sit on strange men laps, but here I am, sitting on a strange man lap. I guess it’s okay since it’s…

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“Video games are for boys!”

I remember them time and time again: “That’s for boys, put that down!” every time I stepped outside of that pink stuff and frilly dresses square they drew me in. I felt like a square.

I still do.

I missed out on some really great video games, but my brother(s) didn’t. I got the hand-me-downs [broken consoles, with cords with impossible to fix shorts in them, controllers with buttons that don’t work, etc.] and the things they didn’t want to play. I enjoyed them all the same. I ended up being really good at Columns, though. I still haven’t mastered Golden Axe. I could only reach stage three. Good times.

The only time I got to play video games usually resulted from something I’d rather not talk about having to come into play. Let’s just say after it ended and while it was happening all I saw at the end of the tunnel was a place to be free. I found my home in video games. It was my way to escape from everything around me. That escape only lasted in maybe 3-5 minute burst, maybe once a week or once a day, if I’m lucky. I was trying to disappear from their eyesight and they couldn’t even realize it. I wanted to help them stop wanting to beat me with broomsticks because they couldn’t process their anger differently. Dammit, I wanted to wear short sleeves in the Summer! I wanted to stop having to explain my scars, my bruises. I wanted to stop explaining why my skin is always full of open wounds. That now I’m the one causing because now, I pick my skin. I’m this trapped, confused, black child in the ghetto and I’m not even safe in my own home so what exactly was out there that they were keeping me from? I’m sorry…I’m panning away from the point.

Moving on….

Video games were my escape and they wouldn’t even give me a minutes peace. No matter how much I begged and pleaded. I wanted to be able to sit and play video games like my brothers. I wanted to be a kid. I didn’t want an Easy Bake and white Barbie dolls. I didn’t want frilly dresses and purses. I didn’t want to get beat for doing things that weren’t “lady-like”. And video games were “unladylike”. I could learn car detailing properly, I couldn’t learn mechanics and I couldn’t play video games because all of those things are for boys and that I should get in the kitchen with granny and learn how to cook.

Let me tell you…

I can COOK my ass off.

Then feed it to you and have you coming back for more. 

It’s a good thing too because I love to eat. -ahem.

When I was finally able to leave the house I started to collect older consoles, but I was still a dreamer then because I was collecting component cables and cartridges for them as well so I could play them. My family took them all; sold them or tossed them away, I forget which one they’re a fan of the most. My Gamecube, too.

My very first legit video game I was able to sit down and enjoy that I paid for when I was finally able to leave my house was ‘Super Smash Bros. Melee’. That was my first owned console; the Nintendo Gamecube. I had a silver one and I thought I was the shit because people would tell me how they wanted the silver one. Cheesy, I know. It was mine. My first racing game was a Need for Speed game. I have so many favorites of that franchise: Need for Speed: Most Wanted, Need for Speed Underground 2, and Need for Speed: Carbon. I don’t know why I loved those games, but I did.

*I was going to add pictures to this but, meh. No one reads this anyway.

There are so many games I want to play. Some, I’ve never heard of before my fiance mentioned them. Luckily, there are emulators and I have a gaming rig so I can just play catch up. It’s just, it would have been great to experience video gaming in all its glory, but I couldn’t because “video games are for boys”.

Why I Refuse to Make Sacrifices Just for My Children

The archaic and mundane reasoning behind why a mother can only make sacrifices for her children is getting really tired. Yes, I am a mom. I’ve been one for almost five years now. In those five years, I’ve been told on multiple occasions that, “your life is to those kids now”, or “you have only room to make sacrifices for your children, you gave up your life when you had them.” Why?

Why do I have to subject my life to just being a home-maker? If I don’t make sacrifices for myself, how can I for them? I have to be able to take care of them, right? I can’t do that if I have to toss my dreams away. I’m only human. If I listen to these memes that people share on social media, I’d be more depressed that I’ve ever been.


I’m not saying that I don’t love my children and that I don’t make sacrifices for them, but I’m not going to not make sacrifices for myself. I’m not going to put my entire life on hold just because I’m a mom. I tried that, it didn’t work. I’ll never do it again. All it did was made me bitter and depressed. It sent me to a place I hope I’ll never return to.

Some women are okay with that, I’m not knocking you for doing you. It’s just that’s not me and a lot of mom’s – when they hear me say my truth – cannot handle it. They think it cannot be done. Single mothers do it all of the time; with more children, so I know I can do it with my fiance and two children. If I don’t keep my sanity by finding an outlet or going back to school, then who will? I’m not perfect and I’ll never strive for perfection because that’s implausible.

I should be able to take care of my kids and have the life I want. It shouldn’t have to be either or and I’m sick of hearing it.

I Don’t Know Who My Father Is | The side of me I don’t know

I’m almost 30…

& I don’t know who my father is. I don’t have a name or a point in the right direction. No, my mother isn’t a deaf-mute, she’s not dead, her tongue wasn’t cut from her mouth, her hands still work fine; she just refuse to tell me anything about my father. All she can tell me is that he’s dead and even that can be a lie because she doesn’t have proof. That was proven eons ago.

My mother and I were never close, but she lived with my siblings and me on and off throughout my childhood. Not once did she sit me down and tell me who my father was. Not even in a drunken stupor would she say anything, now that I think about it. I say that because when that woman is drunk, she blurts any and everything out of her mouth. It must be heavily embedded in the back of her head, locked in a lock box that she herself don’t have the key to. It’s in the family bank where there are no customers. She’s the client, teller, and security. She’s not doing good at either of those jobs.

There’s a part of me out there I have no clue about.

& It’s driving me insane. I called my grandmother begging, hoping, crying and pleading; wishing she had more information that could help figure out who my father is. She is in the dark as much as I am. I believe her when she told me she tried for years to get her to open up about my father, she just clams up and pretend she didn’t hear her. How is that fair to the children she brought into this world? I didn’t lay down and have myself.

“I love you!”

That’s the furthest from the truth and I wish she would stop saying it. A mother would tell them who their father is whether they’re dead or not, whether she turned tricks and did drugs or not. As a responsible adult, it’s the right thing to do for the children she didn’t bother taking care of but benefitted from. She was able to pick and choose which children functions she would show up to. She never showed up to ANY of mine.

Now, I know there’s this angst with bitter black women who hate the person they lay down to make mistakes with, but to continue making more mistakes once that mistake is brought into this world isn’t fair and she knows it. Her selfishness and narcissism are clouding whatever good judgment she has left; if she ever had any. I’ve never seen anyone as careless, neglectful, and selfish as her.

She already told me she hated me and there’s not 1 single “I love you” that can prove otherwise because her actions are speaking volumes. I was better off aborted.


How can she look at herself in the mirror to slap on makeup everyday liking the person staring back at her? How can she be so deep in her own emotions that she’s neglecting to see that she’s hurting the very same children she swears up and down she love? How can she foolishly lay down with someone that once she got up vowed to never speak of them ever again no matter how many people beg and plead for her to speak up? How can she not give a reasonable explanation to who my father is or what he looked like? How many people did she sleep with? How is any of this fair or reasonable to me?

At this point, there’s nothing she can say that will make me hate her any more than I already do. She did her dirt so she should own up to it and stop being a coward. I just want a name at least, but I’m not even deserving of that.

She is most likely going to take the truth to her grave.

There are people, family members I will probably never know because of my mother’s selfishness; because of her shitty past. I don’t know what possible health conditions my father had and the fact that he was dead around the time I was born meant he died young, depending on who he was and how old he was. What if I passed something on to my children? What if they need a detailed health history from both my “mom” and my dad? I know I did when I needed to do certain tests for my kids. I’m so fucking tired of having to put “N/A” in the father section when it comes to providing information about him. I would like to know about the other half of me and meet his family. What if he’s actually alive? What if I’ve seen my family members and didn’t even know? What about them? There’s a possibility that they could be looking for me. Then again, my “mom” was a prostitute and if she’s this tight-lipped about my father, it’s most likely she didn’t tell anyone.

I don’t care if she was molested, raped, abused, whatever I deserve answers! She can’t drink herself into a hole where no one can reach her. She had to have known that eventually, her kids will want to know. As smart as she is she’s stupid as hell. You can’t live with your kids, beat them, verbally abuse them, neglect them since before they were born, develop memories with them, be a part of their lives and not expect them to ask questions about who they are!

There’s a level of respect and she don’t deserve it because she doesn’t respect me enough to tell me anything about the other half of me. Which is why when granny tried to make me talk to her when she was coming over when I had moved in that last time I wasn’t having it. I’m not throwing away my principles for someone who don’t even care that their kids are in the dark about who they are. Fuck that and fuck her. Blood is thicker than water, yes, but it doesn’t mean shit if that blood is useless.

I shouldn’t have to pay for something mom could tell me for free

I have to possibly find a test that can maybe, kind of, possibly give me at least a clue. If I can get that, I’d be happy. The problem is, the test cost too much for my budget, so that may be a while. In the meantime, there’s nothing wrong with my mother telling me. She just doesn’t want to because she’s the victim in all of this. I honestly couldn’t give two shits about her problems. She doesn’t give a fuck about me.

I’m done giving her chance after chance to be an adult. I’m too old for this and she’s way too old for this. No amount of alcohol is going to change the past so she needs to put on her big girl panties and deal with it, because if I find out through other means, she’ll never hear from me again; which is what she most likely wants.

Letter to My Daughter | Entry #1: Time

Hey my little goober.

I’m up and awake and I figured this is a good time as any to reflect on you – my daughter.

You are so sweet. You’re very smart and curious. You don’t know how to crawl yet, but you do get everywhere and into everything. These are times I’m going to weep for because I’m going to miss them so much. It’s going to devastate me. Time is vicious and I know these are the moments I need to treasure. I didn’t get much of a chance with your brother. There was so much stress, so much worry and conflict that I don’t remember most of it.

I can’t do that with you. I need to be able to remember what your cheeky grin look like from off the top of my head. I don’t want those memories to fade. I’ve taken so many videos and pictures of just the little things you do. I want to be able to remember those moments forever.

You’d think I’d be able to, but here’s the thing: Mommy is slowly, but surely losing her memory. They don’t know what’s causing it, but mommy is having a rough time remember important things. Don’t worry though, I’m getting it looked at.

Mommy loves you and your brother so very much.

A Letter to My Black Children

My Dear Children,

There are some things that I must tell you. I have to be honest. I can’t sugar-coat it, I can’t wing it. Nothing but the truth can be said about what I need to tell you.

You’re black.

Yes, you already know this, but what you may not realize is that society is going to look at you differently. Your skin color plays a huge part in how people treat you. I know, it shouldn’t be that way but it is. I cannot tell you why because I’m not exactly sure why. Just know that mommy and daddy loves you two very much.

To My Son:

My smart and handsome little boy. You’re going to be a very tall and possibly huge man. That and your skin color is going to intimidate people. There are going to be preconceived notions that you’re violent, angry, a thug even, just on that alone. You may – most probably will – get treated differently and probably harassed by law enforcement. Keep your head down, don’t get angry, respect them, don’t make any sudden moves, keep your hands where they can see them. Hopefully, the cop that day may not taze or shoot you anyway. If you know you haven’t done anything and you were just going home, don’t think it’s your fault. It’s not. It’s society. It’s hunting season and black people are getting killed at least 15 times a week at the time of this being written.

You will have to work 10x harder than the white man to get anywhere. The system is built to see you fail. Don’t let it break you. Show these people who are. You’re smart, independent and you don’t need to be white to get far. Don’t limit yourself to football or basketball just because someone took one look at you and say that’s all you’ll amount to. History tries to erase and take claim to everything we’ve created. We’re geniuses. If you want to be a scientist, a doctor, hell, even a race car driver, go for it. It’s your life.

Just know that society base their views on how dark your skin is. The lighter you are, the smarter they think you are. As a mom, I have to tell you these things because I love you. I wish there was someone there to tell these things to me when I was a child. I hope throughout the years as you get older that I have the strength and the knowledge to help you.

Cops are getting away with murder, the government is no better. Hell, you don’t have to be a cop to get away with murder, just be white. They don’t need a reason to kill you. Society doesn’t really need a legitimate reason to hate you, you just have to have a fucked up disposition that’s out of your control; your skin color.

 Don’t hate yourself, and please don’t hate me. I don’t want you to ever regret being born. Don’t give the racists or the bigots the satisfaction. Colorism, classism and racism is alive and kicking. It’s only going to get worse before it gets better.

To my daughter,

My sweet and beautiful daughter. Mommy loves you and your brother so very much. The world is going to treat you so unfairly, mama. You get paid less, especially if you’re black. But on the flip-side you’ll probably get a job faster than someone darker than you because you’re high-colored. People will ask you if you have a white parent, or “what are you, exactly?” Hopefully you have your father’s sense of humor and smarts to give them a quick and educative response.

You will have to work so much harder than anyone else to get a high-paying job. The work-force don’t take kind to women working. Especially if you go into welding or any other job where there are mostly men. Don’t let that stop you, mama. It damn sure isn’t stopping me.

Not only do you have to worry about how society sees you, you have to worry about how black women and men see you. Why? Because of your lighter skin. Black people are not kind to each other when it comes to things like that.

There are other things in life that you and I will explore together because as a woman, I’m still learning and realizing things for myself.

Life is not kind to us. We’re treated unfairly and are seen in a dirty light. As long as I’m living, you two won’t have to stand in that light alone. Your parents got your back. We can’t protect you forever or keep you from the world that’s out there. Everyone isn’t racist. Everyone aren’t bigots, or prejudice. There are genuinely nice and caring people out there, it’s just that there are fewer and fewer as time goes on. Keep your eyes open, be aware, be smart, be conscious, be safe.

Mommy and daddy loves you!

She’s Spitting Up So Much! | Do I Have to Stop Breastfeeding?

This is no regular spit up. She’s spitting up a huge amount every single time. It happens 8-20 times a day on average. It always reminds me of ‘The Exorcist’ when she does. When I’m holding her and she spits up it’s always a lot. It leaves puddles on the carpet and she wakes up in puddles of her own vomit. When she’s awake and laying on her back she grunts a lot – a whole lot.

When she’s spitting up she never look to be as if she’s in pain. She could be in the middle of babbling and she’ll spit up as if it was nothing. Other times she could be entertaining herself while laying down and end up choking on her vomit.

I’ve changed my diet many times and nothing I eat seems to change her amount of vomit. At this point, it’s more than just spit up, she’s throwing up. I don’t know what to do other than starting her on formula. It pains me to have to say that, it frustrates me that I have to think about it. I didn’t get a chance to breastfeed my son and I was so looking forward to breastfeeding my daughter for at least a year. Here it is, not even 3 months in and I’m stuck deciding on if she’s just allergic to my breast milk.

When I talked to her pediatrician, she told me to cut back on feeding her seeing as I make so much of it. She thinks she’s engorging herself because of how much I make. Well, I’ve tried that and there’s no change and it leaves her crying and screaming for more.

If you look at her, you couldn’t tell that she has a problem with keeping food down, she’s huge. She weighs a few ounces shy of 13 pounds. I honestly don’t know what to do here but to switch her food. I really don’t want to, but what else is there? If I change my diet anymore, I’d be stuck with just drinking water and eating unsalted crackers.

2 Months Today | My Sweet GIrl

Well my mama turned 2 months today. That’s 8 whole weeks! She’s put on some weight and she’s getting heavy. I’m still breastfeeding and I’m proud of myself for making it this far.

Funny thing happened this evening. I was getting my daughter’s bath ready and her father was helping. He fatmamatook off her diaper and was about to hand her to me and she crapped on his hand and the rest made a huge plop on the floor. There was none on her butt, it somehow slipped through the cracks of his fingers and made a perfect splat on the floor. I lost it. It was so funny! Luckily, we were in the bathroom.

My sweet daughter has given her father the blues. She exploded all over him; that was messy. It was in places we didn’t realize until after the fact. Mustard colored poop was everywhere! We were able to laugh at it all. It just seems she waits until she’s in his arms to explode and spit up all over him.

Anyway she’s giving me these huge smiles and she wakes up very talkative in the morning. Kicking her feet, swinging her arms, cooing and squealing while laying in between her father and I. Life could be better, but for the most part, with moments like those, life is great.

Hey Baby…

My sweet, innocent baby. I’m so worried about you. I’m so worried to the point that I’m second-guess what’s wrong. Is it, whooping-cough, croup, or something else? As I hold you in my arms and your body mybabybegins to rock and shake because of how hard you’re coughing, it’s so hard to hold back the tears. While I hear your loud shrieks and the screams that come when you’re coughing, I keep hoping that it doesn’t get worse. I keep hoping that this is just a cold.

This cold and flu season hasn’t been kind to children and that makes me twice as worried. I’m here with you, sweetheart. I just want you to get better. Your mom never experienced a sick newborn before so I’m a bit high-strung. Especially since last night. Last night you wouldn’t fall asleep any other way unless it was in my arms. The coughing was violent, you’d gasp for air and then shriek. The coughing and screaming was so loud, I thought you’d wake up your father. By the time you fell into a comfortable slumber in my arms, the sun was rising. All that time, I spent worrying about your sleep that I neglected mine. We’re both sick, but I can manage.

Please be okay, little one. I love you.