Note: this post contains affiliate links but it is not sponsored. All opinions are my own. As an aspiring screenwriter , I needed a job that didn’t impede my writing goals. In 2015, I quit my call center gig and transition back to full-time writing. In preparation for the upcoming writing contest and fellowship submission season, I found myself with little time to write and edit my freelance assignments as well as my web series. Burning the candle at both ends made me slower and sloppy. Missing the deadlines was not an option. Submitting poorly-written work was a waste of money. I had a decision to make: should I hire a freelance copyeditor or should I buy grammar software? Hey Onicia is a series where I tap into my type-A side and answer questions from my friends about this starving artist life. If you find this helpful, share with your twitter homies or thank me with ice cream . Got questions or want to share something with me? Let’s chat. Hiring a Professional ...

“Good luck with your project. I hope you make friends soon. And remember to return the book next week.” Glasses. Braces. A backpack weighed down by books. Many would be surprised to know that I regularly ditched class. Yes, I skipped class to read books at the library. Insert montage of everyone who has ever known me saying “You too fooly nuh gyal.” Rewind to nine hours earlier. As I walked to the bus stop, I reflected on the lessons from family worship. I don’t remember what we discussed; I just remember having the intense desire to make some grand charitable gesture. Activating my nerd/good girl super powers, I convinced the gatekeeper to let me out the gate and headed towards the library. Here’s the thing: trashy romance novels were my guilty pleasure. Smut fiction wouldn’t have been my drug of choice, but that’s what the avid readers in my friend circle enjoyed. Mostly I read to laugh at the stupid decision these characters made in the name of love. Teenage me was vowed...

“Sir, your claim was denied due to moisture. Yes, water is moisture.” It started as any other day at the call center - or so I thought. At 8:30 a.m. sharp I began working towards my self-imposed 80-call quota. Arguing with ignorant adults about the terms of their two-page contract which they didn’t read is not something you want to do more than once a day. Eighty was my sanity limit. I also had zero motivation to increase this corporations’ profits. On this particular call, the customer was upset because the warranty company was denying their claim for part which was ‘clearly covered on the contract’. However, the client failed to see that ‘failure due to moisture’ voided anything that was ‘clearly covered on the contract’. We were fifteen minutes into the call. I needed a break. “Sir, let me place you on hold while I review the terms with my Manager.” Instead of calling my Manager, I peeked over the cubicle partition to check in with my office BFF. From her exasperate...

“The furniture isn't decorative. Please, have a seat.” It was day three of a little game I’d created called ‘Dare to Sit: Rich vs. Rich'. I’d taken a temporary gig as a receptionist for a billionaire. Yeah, B for Billions. My employer had Oprah money. Cue cash register sound effect. ‘Dare to Sit’ challenged supposedly wealthy financial advisors and general money men to sit on ‘so valuable it belongs in a museum’ furniture while waiting for their meeting. Fewer than half the guests accepted my challenge. Less than a third leveled up and accepted a drink while they waited. When you’re a billionaire, no one visits you unexpectedly. On my first day, I was searching for the entrance when a voice from an unseen speaker called out “Are you Onicia?”. I turned in a circle and looked at the sky, was this God or schizophrenia? Neither. The unseen voice directed me to the entrance. Lesson: millionaires have cameras at the gate. Billionaires have cameras and two-way communicat...

“I couldn’t help it you’re just so beautiful.” In high school I discovered a quote “high school is like prison: the sex you want you ain’t getting and the sex you getting – you ain’t want.” It’s a typical Monday morning. I search my phone for entertainment to survive the commute. Wendy William’s hot topic is mind numbing. Switching to NPR, I catch the tail end of a segment explaining the differences between #BlackLivesMatter and #AllLivesMatter. This is too heavy for a Monday. I need something uplifting to take my mind off of bills, roommate issues, and all the horrible current world events. Praise hands emoji for Kari Jobe’s music. Yes! My favorite seat on the train is open. I never mastered the art of staying awake on public transport. Knocking on mental wood, I zip my purse and loop the straps around my arm. Here’s to not getting robbed. “Spare some change for the homeless?” I open my eyes to see a young, black male bundled in a thick winter coat. His overs...

“Can you be more natural?” “What do you mean?” I asked my boyfriend of fewer than six months. I tried to conceal my thoughts with a Stepford Wives meets Serial Mom smile. Here's the thing: I was already the most natural I’d ever been in my entire life. Yes, my hair was straight, but it was only a temporary effect created with my flat iron and blow dryer. I didn’t wear hair extensions, fake nails, or makeup. I’d never had plastic surgery! From my crazy eyes, he could tell that my inner monolog switched from ‘quirky brown girl’ to ‘angry black woman.' Cue: hand clapping, finger pointing, and neck rolls. See, interracial dating was new for me. I anxiously searched for signs of being tokenized. I was secure in my blackness and was not here for men looking to cure their Jungle Fever or feed their low key melanin fetish. “Can you be more natural?” his words rang in my mind as I soaked in the tub. Should I? I removed my shower cap. Reaching for the nearest towel, ...

“ Now I weight approx. 325 lbs.” Flashback to one month earlier. My birthday was coming up, and I’d decided to venture into online dating with the hopes of landing a date before the end of April.  In an age where Tinder and Grindr are things, I thought choosing OkCupid would be the smart option for quality dates. Wrong! Had I searched the net for ‘OkCupid horror stories’ or watched MTV’s  Catfish  I would have known to set the bar low. Way low. Low like dig a hole and bury it. Very quickly I learned not to respond to messages that had even a hint of sexual innuendo. Sir, how dare you send me a “Hey, sup?” like I’m some common Jezebel! Right before I gave up hope, Roberto messages me. I check out his profile. We’re a meh match and I’m not physically attracted to him. But, since he didn’t hit me with the eggplant in the first go, I figured I’d respond. He’s regular. Aside from being prone to write days of scripture, he’s regular. I think,  maybe...