I never really won anything cool or was the most popular person. Getting a shot the fourth-grade prize box because I had perfect attendance didn’t count. Any ole Joe can have perfect attendance; you just need parents who ride you and bus drivers who wait when they see you running. One year some colorful plastic strings called Scoubidou appeared on the playground. Rebecca got some while away on vacation and weaved away her recess time. After making the same snide remarks about teenagers playing with string like old women knitting in groups for the thousandth time, Rebecca challenged to stop hating. Making the simple two-strand square was a no-brainer. Same for the two-strand circle. Instead of quipping, the clouds parted in my hater heart and I could feel the glow of this wholesome activity radiating through my body.  My brain screamed: MAKE ALL THE DESIGNS YE WITH GIFTED HANDS! We invested in the string market. Rebecca handled the money bag and individual string sales. I d...

We were originally hyped to see a real Mexican bullfight. I was ready for some Loony Toons level shenanigans. Twenty minutes in, I decided to stop fronting and wear my glasses. My life instantly upgraded to HD vision and I had questions. Who cosigned using the red cloth to hide the stick from the bull? More importantly, who swapped the stick for a big ole sword? Where is PETA? How is everyone so chill watching murder? Roberto, the Liberace-looking bullfighter -- nay, bully -- was out there stabbing Toro whose painful cries we could hear. After watching this senseless torture for over two hours, I was convicted to honor my recently slain friends. I would carry Ferdinand’s spirit with me by eating him.  What? Look, everyone wants their death to have a purpose. If your homeboy was senselessly slain wouldn’t you eat him? No? Well, obviously y'all ain't friends. While I was reverently pourin’ one out for my homie -- by that I mean, drizzling Ferdinand with authentic Mexican s...

I have a love-hate relationship with public transportation. As rush hours go, I resigned to being just another sardine the human-sized can. The warning sign reads: don’t lean against the door. The stick figure person's limbs flail precariously. What do you think is worse, falling out while the L is underground and potentially being crushed and zapped or falling from an open, but elevated platform and risking a spinal injury. Freak accidents happen every day; you need to have a plan. My butt was already pressed against the divider near someone’s face when some rando slid their hand in to join the tuna train. Dude, the conductor said there’s another train following immediately. There’s no need to force yourself. (Side eye. Like duh, another one is behind us. That’s how train tracks work, Mrs. Conductor!)  I had to reposition from butt in face to face in a stranger’s neck. What’s worse, trying not to breathe like a creepy stalker into someone’s hair or containing potential fart...

In case you missed the memo, I am neurotic and obsessive. I keep score of everything. It’s why I remember with such clarity that the Mermaid police snubbed on my birthday way back in kindergarten.  My former roommate, Rebecca’s excessive use of toilet paper pushed me to conduct a series of bathroom experiments. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with that information. Hopefully, finding answers to these personal hygiene questions would help me sleep better at night. There’s something comforting about quantifiable evidence should clapback be needed. Experiment 1: over and under I noticed the toilet paper roll was facing under (behind the roll). Sometimes you’re in a rush and put it the wrong way. I get it. So, I adjusted it for her. They next morning, the roll was back in its original position. Was she intentionally being a bathroom psycho? I check her toothpaste tube. The results were inconclusive. I flipped the roll again just in case I imagined it.  When the TP ret...

It’s the Sunday night after Thanksgiving. I was in my room sleeping when around 5 am I hear my roommate walk from her bedroom to the bathroom or so I thought. My door was ajar, and I couldn’t fall back asleep until I was sure she was back in her room. I never hear her return to her room. I need to sleep; I can’t stay up monitoring her activity. Suddenly, I hear what can only be described as full-grown grizzly bear mixed with Chubakka snoring. Rebecca, you can't sleep with your door open if you plan to snore like a wildebeest.  A half hour later I hear some stomping. I get that it might be prayer o’clock but it can also be quite an hour?  THUD! Things crash and tumble. That was the last straw; I needed to confront her. But I can’t go out there rolling my neck; she could be hurt. She’s not in the living room. I see a glow coming from the kitchen.  Spotted in the far left corner: Bobby the burglar passed out with the fridge wide open and his belongings sprawled all ...

I thought the hardest part of seeing a play is resisting the urge to eat snacks. Theater people be mad snobby. Simply crossings your legs can lead to passive-aggressive cut eyes. They don’t know your life and they don’t care whether your leg is cramping. Here’s the situation: it's the weekend and I want to have fun, but I have to see my professor’s play. I didn’t have to, but I wanted to know if they could write. Like, how dare they take thousands of my dollars and judge my writing when they low key ain’t all that good? I’m going to have my period. Most women just need to pop a Midol so they can keep it pimpin’. For me, I need to find shelter near a bathroom because it’s countdown to my monthly exorcism. Because we’d already purchased tickets, plan A was to sit at the end of the row and just step out if I needed to. Real simple, right? Nah!  It turns out that this is a storefront theater. Stepping out would most certainly lead to interrupting the play. We’ve already establi...

Wanted: travel and style magazine writer. Please write about the Black Natural Hair Movement in the US and Africa (1000 words), African student exchange programs (1000 words), the African film industry with emphasis on Nollywood (1000 words), Congolese culture (500 words), Caribbean travel tips (1000 words), Caribbean travel trends (1000 words), a luxury hotel review (500 words), and an African hotel review (500 words). We will pay you $100. TOTAL! Oh sweet, sweet internet money. My fingers are ready and willing to be worked to the bone for your highly generous and hopefully freshly forged $100 bill. Yes, I will ignore all my RSI injuries. I will ignore my strained eyes and back pain. I will write these words for you. I will write all nine articles for you in perfect English. This is why I earned a Masters degree. My dream was to land a gig paying (pulls out calculator) $0.01 per word. Forgive me; I’m a writer, so my math is wrong. I need to deduct a percentage somewhere for the tax...

I’m not a picky eater. Since I spent most of my growing years eating healthy food, I feel like it’s my adult right to eat whatever I want – at least before I have kids and need to be a role model or whatever. However, it’s not that time. This is my time to wild out and eat whatever I want. What I want is a basic burger, fries, and ice cream combo. All day. Every day. Maybe switch it up with a doughnut or two. Sometimes my friends convince me to try new things. I occasionally indulge them. Usually, my fears of dishes being too spicy or gagging on mud result in enjoyable experiences.  We decided to check the Pakistani restaurant off the food bucket list. This was the real deal. People were eating with their hands, double-dipping, and adding secret herbs and sauces. They were going all in! The one white couple in the joint were eating with utensils. As the only black person there, I felt obligated to do my people proud and eat like the natives. That. Butter chicken. Was. Bangin...

“Why are we wasting time? There’s no point to all these new measures if gate security is just going to look at me -- and girls like me -- and not search us. You see pigtails, cute faces, and assume we’re not carrying drugs or weapons.” I doubt anyone remembered my monolog, but it felt cool to say something that implied I was a bad girl while pointing out gender biases.  My foray into smuggling was unintentional. One time during a morning check, security discovered a massive screwdriver in my bag. “Oh, I was doing an experiment in my yard. I must have forgotten it.” Without question, he returned the weapon -- because that’s what it could have been -- and sent me on my way. “Why are your eyes red?” asked the guard. “Because I went to bed with mascara on and now my eyes are irritated.” I was blunt and unconcerned. My excuse seemed legitimate, and he waved me into the campus. I was never selected for random drug testing.  They interrupted a would-be uninspiring Economy...

Cold sweats, shakes, delusions, and diarrhea. I'd surpassed the “I'm so sick I should see a doctor regardless of the copay” phase and was now in the “here's my computer password; call my mom if I die” phase. I’d lost seven pounds through running to the bathroom to clear my colon. On day fourteen of what I was sure was a modern strain of the Black Death (Dramatic. I know!) when my internship boss called.  Apparently, she thought my two weeks’ notice was contingent on me finding a replacement. It wasn’t. After eight months of unpaid laboring, I decided to move on. Finding a replacement was my parting gift. It wasn’t my fault, nor my problem, that Rebecca the unreliable Canadian was, well, unreliable. Short of breath and borderline delirious, I explained that even if I wanted to, I couldn’t help because I was seriously unwell. Faster than it took me to put my arms under the covers and roll on my side, my roommate’s phone rang.  Mumbling. Chucking. Pacing. There’s a kno...

Roberto lingered at my desk like a bee desperate for honey. I was the cute receptionist. He was the newly hired IT guy. It was his first day. He was a total Chatty Chad. Was this flirting? Was it first day jitters? I can never tell. Whatever it was, I needed it to end because I had important scumbag temp employee things to do.  On the list: admire my hair and cute outfit in the bathroom’s full-body mirror. Drink two unnecessary cups of FREE hot chocolate. (Disregard that it’s “too warm” because we were deep into spring. Never pass up on free chocolate!). Most importantly, complete one of hopefully four rounds of squats before the morning mail delivery. Squatting better be life if your policy is never to pass on free chocolate. A pleasant smile. Ample head nodding. Agreeing murmurs when applicable. My life goals weren’t pressing. Reminder: she who has friends must show herself to be friendly. Be kind; everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. Eh, dude was recently unemployed...

On our fourth date, Roberto gifted me his Christian dating book. Apparently, there are five dating levels. He was ready for us to enter the second level. Each level came with instructions for physical boundaries.  Level 3 was where things would – nay, could – get exciting. Then we could have “face-to-face” contact. I was almost certain that meant kissing, but from the way things were going, this could very well just be us rubbing our cheeks together. Maybe he was into more alternative forms of intimacy and wanted to experiment with rubbing our foreheads together. Ey, every lock has a key! No judgment. At level 2, we had limited hand holding and flirty thumb fights. I was only allowed to touch exposed body parts. If he wore a cap sleeve t-shirt, I could only touch him all the way up to the hem of that sleeve. If he wore a long sleeve button down, I could only touch up to his wrist. His body is a wonderland with restrictive visiting hours. But I'm not here to bash lifestyle cho...