I'm an ARTIST

...and I'm sensitive about my shhhhiiiiiizzzz...

Yes, I took this. 

I know.

 It's so overwhelmingly striking that it resembles a poster. 

I'm about to host my own showing at an art gallery.

Then, I can act all-too-important and proud about my mediocre "works."

Hoodrats Like Water. A Lot.

Since NBA All Star in Dallas is this weekend, I've decided to revisit hoodrattedness. I'm slipping! If I'm gonna land a baller, I've gotta start craving bread and welcome a parched throat. That way I'll have enough belly room for all the water I'm gonna need to cure cotton mouth.

First, I need to step my swag up. I'm looking very Plane Jane. The look is too studious; I'm slipping. I'm in dire need of a neck tattoo, clear chunky heels and plastic multicolored bangles if I want to get noticed by a baller this weekend.

Second, I've got to get with the program. I've been studying every picture of Nicki Minaj I can get my hands on for outfit ideas. It's a must to perfect the lines, "What kinda car you drivin'?" "Your striped polo is the shit!" and "Uhun, I ain't basic, I'm a five-star bitch!!" while cracking my Bubblicious. And, I have to make sure I harass the bartenders to replace my adult beverages and then confidently not tip.

Last, the hangers-on, fringe homies are going to be my target entry point to bagging a baller. Along with bodyguards, bouncers and barbacks. The more I act like I need a glass of tap water (cus it's free and it looks like a vodka tonic if you put a lime in it, ho!), the more ounces of Ace of Spades that is going to flow from a VIP bottle into my mouth to quench my thirst. 

If all else fails and I can't get into the super exclusive lounge areas, I'll just hawk the entrance, pacing back and forth in my discount platform heels until I get noticed and asked to fufill someone's pseudo-publicist "request" via the "How Low Can You Go" method. Or get told to beat it. 

Yep, that's pretty much how it's gonna go down.

He Likes Cracks, Not Cooters

So, I met this guy when I was 26 years old. And what I loved most, he had so much soul.... This guy was great. My dream. Tall and brown.

One great sense of humor. Check
Two degrees. Check.
Three Piece suit and impeccable taste. Check.
Four vehicles: two cars, a motorcycle and a boat. Check.
Five star restaurants and vacation spots. Check.
Over six feet tall. Check.
And, he was fine. Not no ordinary fine. Like a, not surpassed, but lapped Boris, Morris, and Micheal Jordan in '93 type of fine.

One catch, though. Just one.

And, before you jump to conclusions, yes he had a high FICO score. But back to the catch. And it came in the form of minor, teeny, small detail. He slipped up. He uttered the word "divo" in reference and reverence to Dwight Eubanks from RHOA.

Yep. You guessed it: HE'S GAY!

There went my dreams of a huge, Kimora Lee-style walk in closet. My visions of perfectly coiffed children with creative-chic names like Falcon and Sparrow. My chance at what could have been my Barack. My ticket out of Oklahoma. My future husband that would be okay with me keeping my last name. Poof. Gone. Gone into the depths of the tunnel of darkness that is anal play.

That's what I get for having respectable standards. If  I'd had hoodrat expectations, I'd have a straight man. Someone who's always home, because he's mooching off me. I wanna get married in nine yrs, I gotta start getting serious. And because of his affinity for peepees and not vajayjays, I have to start from scratch. I give up. He needs a beard, and I'll be that stoic partner that stands by his side when he gets caught in public restrooms with a barely legal boy toy and a pocket full of meth.

So, yeah. I'll marry a gay! We can have a life of wonderful dinners, imperially decorated homes, designer duds, great conversation, cuddle to watch Sex & the City on DVD together...as long as I get first dibs on that barely legal boy toy.

Photo Jojo!

I skimmed through the cutest DIY book called PhotoJojo: Insanely Great Photo Projects and DIY Ideas by Amit Gupta & Kelly Jensen. I've decided that I'm going to try to take a picture everyday for a month. There, I said it. Now, I have to stick to it!

Thinking I might use Tumblr for this...hmmm. Oh, and you can get PhotoJojo's newsletter here.

Girl, U So Dirty!

Kids, I need to take a shower. The lack of full-time job has compromised my hygene. I've got to get back on a regular schedule. I admit this because there's no sense in walking around with wavy smell lines and clouds of dust (think: Pig-Pen) radiating from my hair, underarms and lady parts. It's shameful. It's rude. It's soo not cute. Wearing the same outfit for three and a half days is borderline offensive. Seriously, someone needs to give me a citation.

I pretend like the greasiness from my hair is 'shine.' When I reach over to pick something up, the scent of stale deodorant wafts into my nostrils. I feel the wind breeze through my boyish-length leg hairs when I walk around the house in shorts. That's IF I get out of bed and out of my sweats before 3 p.m. I need an intervention. Where are my friends and loved ones sitting around me, tearfully choking on their words as they read heartfelt letters expressing concern for the cleanliness of my coochie? Where are Ken, Jeff and Candy? Where is my gift?

It's okay. I can kick this habit on my own. I'll do better; I promise.

The show this in the day time???

Tsk, tsk, tsk at the Food Network for showing content not suitable for minors. What's up with the culinary porn? Yeah, I said it. And, I'm talking to you, Giada.

Anyone who's watched Giada De Laurentiis on her show Everyday Italian knows what I'm getting at. The soft, seductive vocals; sultry background muzak; unrealisticly full mounds, neat bushels, and sizeable carrots; and of course: the money shot.

Take a quick look below. The good stuff's at the :20 mark. Music at 1:50.

Oooohhhhh, yyeeaaaahhhh