No Country For Mixed Girls
I used to stubbornly answer “Washington D.C.” because that’s where I was born, or “California” because that’s where I grew up from. But those answers would always provoke “No! Where are you really from?”
I used to stubbornly answer “Washington D.C.” because that’s where I was born, or “California” because that’s where I grew up from. But those answers would always provoke “No! Where are you really from?”
Perhaps my greatest downfall is my abstract mind; repeatedly a traitor, leading me astray. I’m always falling into the traps set by my clumsy heart.
Lately I’ve noticed how much this city has affected me. How I instantly see the bad in people and judge them, how untrustworthy I am of other people no matter what they do or say to try to prove me wrong.
“She’s just like Anne Hathaway, people will always hate her.”
Peace and love to you all. Well, some of you at least.
When will you be happy and stop feeling the need to mention race?
Society’s constant fixation on nothing more than two knobs of fat has resulted in an industry purely targeted at the augmentation of said lumps of lard, numerous discussions on the struggles of large and slightly less large breasts, and the appeal or lack thereof of mosquito bites.
I get interrogated by an officer, but because I watched Justin Bieber’s deposition, my answers are obnoxious I end up being kept more hours than I deserve.
Your young love will permanently mark you and set you apart from the rest, and not in a good way.
Not everyone wants to drink themselves into oblivion on Thirsty Thursday or Faded Friday and Sloppy Saturday.