Adventures In The Nightclub

31 Day Writing Challenge LAST DAY! “No topic”

When a friend of mine invited me to celebrate her birthday at a well-known DC nightclub where J. Cole would perform, I didn’t need much coaxing. This friend is highly networked in the DC social scene, so the night’s festivities would be gratis. Free food? Free drinks? You already had me at J. Cole, but now I am digging through my closet to retrieve my most comfortable heels.

You can find me in da club.

You can find me in da club.


I had to mentally psyche myself out all week, knowing that if I didn’t, I would easily give in to my usual Friday night stupor and end up on the couch watching Fashion Police. So, I spent the week figuring out what to wear (a black dress that was comfortable and functional enough not to reveal my ass in case I decided to drop it like it’s hot) and deciding on the most logical mode of transportation (the Metro–because it was only eight stops from the Metro station I use, plus finding parking in DC gives me anxiety and makes me sweat.) Thanks to a smart suggestion from both my coworker and another friend, I even installed “iTrans DC,” an app that would let me know when the Metro was coming. I was finally ready to reunite with my clubbing days.

My friends and I started going to nightclubs when we were 16 years old, compliments of

My freshmen clubbing days.

My freshmen clubbing days.

the abominable idea to host club “Teen Nights.” We frequented an establishment called “Baja Beach Club” where we would sweat through our sequined spaghetti strap shirts while gyrating to Lil Jon’s “Get Low.” During the second semester of my freshmen year in college, we started going to “Love,” a place we mistakenly considered an upgrade from our Baja Beach days. Like many clubs, Love hosted “18 and over” nights, something I now, five years later, also deem an abominable idea. We spent Saturday after Saturday shaking our post-pubescent bodies and making Facebook albums titled, “OMG Freshman Year Is Almost Over!” The bulk of my social life during college centered around these 18 and over nights, until I finally turned 21 and went to more legitimate spots.

Before last night, the last time I had gone to a club was a year ago when I spent Labor Day Weekend in Miami. I knew I was a little rusty, but my clubbing incompetence was half of the fun. We had dinner and when we learned that bottle service wouldn’t begin until about midnight (it was only 10 p.m.) we took to the bar to grab a drink. When the bartender announced that my margarita costs $17 dollars, I looked at him as though he had ten different heads. Seventeen dollars? For one drink? Do you know how many bottles of wine I can buy for that kind of money? Lesson learned: no more Patron margaritas. Ever.

We danced. We drank. We laughed. We waited in anticipation of J. Cole. The bottles arrived and all I could think is why are they holding up these bottles, complete with a flashing light show, as though we just won the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes? It’s just Ciroc. Everyone calm down.

Around 1 a.m. two pivotal things happened. One of these things is that we made our way to the third floor where J. Cole was set to perform. We clawed through a crowd of eager men looking at us as though we were prime rib in a meat market and got to the third floor–a location that was packed to the gills with perspiring bodies. It didn’t take more than a millisecond to realize we were not going to see J. Cole. Guess I had to live vicariously through my obsessive YouTubing of his songs.

The other pivotal thing that happened is that my foot got stepped on.

I have always known that I am a zero or 100 kind of person. My polarity reveals itself most in social settings, where I am either cackling and living it up or rolling my eyes and ready to leave. I only go out if I know I will be at 100. The combination of discerning that I would not see J. Cole paired with staring at my now-bleeding big toe incited the quickest 100 to zero descent I’ve ever had. The iTrans DC app I installed fifteen hours prior proved worthy. I looked at it, saw the next Metro train would arrive in seven minutes, bid my friends farewell and bolted through the club and down 14th street, reaching the platform just as the train arrived.

My feet felt like I had walked on hot coals by the time I got home and climbed into bed. My ears were ringing. This morning, my body felt like someone had put it through a blender. Since I abandoned my clubbing days a few years back, I learned that I haven’t missed much and I haven’t missed them much. But, I had fun, so it was well worth it. Bleeding big toe and all.





I’m Writing A Book. Or, Something Like That.

Two of many side projects.

My fake book on the right that is just a compilation of my blog posts.

31 Day Writing Challenge Day 30: “Your remaining goals for 2013″

In January I got the bright idea to write a book. Or, the terrible idea. I really can’t decide.

I almost feel like a sell-out for even writing a blog post about writing a book. I should just go and finish the damn book. Don’t talk about it; be about it–to borrow from the most trite expression known to  African-American mankind. But, I am supposed to document my remaining goals for the rest of this year and finishing a draft of the book is far and away the most important goal.

Every writer dreams of writing at least one book. Don’t you dare let any of them tell you any different. We’re all these self-indulgent individuals whose eyes light up at the prospect of one day holding some form of our gritty thoughts glued together in a textblock.

I’ve been shoveling shit when it comes to my manuscript. I had a surge of creative energy back in April and I drafted a few chapters. I then shuffled my feet back and forth in May as I started a new romance. My dedicated 10 p.m. book writing hour transformed into phone conversation hour with my new romantic prospect. I decided attending BookExpo America in NYC in June would be just the boost I needed to get this baby started. I went to BookExpo America, came back, ended it with the guy and shoveled more shit. In July I wrote here and there. And, then in August I took up the writing challenge which has worn me out.

I need a book come-to-Jesus moment because that graph above is just a pathetic list of excuses.

Here’s the thing about books. EVERYONE WRITES THEM NOW. Melissa Gorga “wrote” one about her hot and happy marriage which is a testament to the fact that even an idiot can pen a book if it’s marketable. Semi-celebrities writing books is a pretty egregious insult to people who actually, well, write. And write well.

Nonetheless, my main goal for the remainder of the year is to finish the draft of the book and not drink excessive amounts of Chardonnay while doing it (but moderate amounts are fine.) I do not know what will happen when the draft is complete. I’m not some fancy pants with a book deal, although I’d probably fall out on the floor in a Holy Ghost shake if I did get one. Of course, I’m afraid it will never get published. I’m afraid I’ll go flat broke trying to self-publish. I’m afraid people won’t read it. Hell, I’m afraid people will read it. And, it’s sort of like Twenties Unscripted on steroids. It’s much easier to let my words roam wildly when the end result is not immediately clicking “publish.” Sarcasm and indecency run amuck in my current drafts with sentences like “Law school was my Plan B. But, this is my life, not a busted condom.” My parents think the f-bombs on my blog are bad. So, Mom and Dad, I apologize in advance for this not-yet-published book. I owe you some of the profit?

Every blogger thinks they have a book in them. Some do. Many don’t. I’m not aiming to replicate my blog which is what a lot of bloggers mistakenly do. You can read that for free; that’s why I have archives. Instead, I’m aiming to give you the stories behind my daily 500-word cryptic posts and provide people with the backdrop of the “hims” and “yous” whom I never truly identify. Bigger. Badder. Badass.

If I ever sit down and write the damn thing.



P.S. I also hope to spend the remainder of the year staying happy, working on my spoken word, ensuring my cat doesn’t gain gross amounts of weight from all the fried chicken bits I feed her, keeping my day job, not getting too tripped up on guys, or at least getting tripped up enough to get some good blog posts out of them.





Even Us Cynics Still Believe In Love.

These flowers weren't from a guy. They were a complimentary gift from my apartment complex. But, we can always pretend.

These flowers weren’t from a guy. They were a complimentary gift from my apartment complex. But, we can always pretend.

31 Day Writing Challenge Day 29: “The last emotion you felt before writing this”

There’s a vendor at my job who sells flowers every Thursday evening in the lobby. I usually smile at him and wish him a good night before continuing on my way to freedom. Today, I noticed there was a guy picking up flowers. I didn’t think anyone actually bought them.

I conjured up a narrative about the flower purchaser, telling myself that he brings his wife flowers every Thursday night. She doesn’t know about the flower guy in the lobby and he never needs to tell her. All she knows is that he comes home on Thursdays with a fresh bouquet. This story could and very well may be total bullshit. But, I like to make things up.

It is said that human beings experience about 27 different emotions within an hour, so it is hard to pinpoint the very last emotion I felt before writing this. However, the last prominent emotion I felt before sitting down to write tonight was hopeful. I credit flower purchaser and my potentially fictitious story with that hope.

I devote a sizeable amount of my blog real estate to documenting my missteps in love, lust and like. I have learned that a broken heart, bitter memories and unfinished business all make for colorful content on a page. The things I have scribed that I’ve most enjoyed re-reading are those written therapy sessions. It is as though the English language provided us with many more words and metaphors to describe hurt than it did to describe happiness.

But, because my posts are skewed in that direction of jaded woman, it is easy to hide that I still very much believe in romance and love. We are bombarded with tales of infidelity and broken relationships so much that it is natural to forget that good things and good people still exist.

Yesterday I read a list on Huff Post Women entitled, “25 Things I Want Myself To Know At 25.” I’m a bit of a list fiend and this one was laced with gems. One of my favorite items was:

6. Be grateful for that moment when you decided to stop being such a sarcastic asshole and let your guard down long enough to fall in love and let someone fall in love with you…

I am certainly that sarcastic asshole. I possess a host of characteristics, but vulnerability is one that I had to gradually attain. I realized being that girl who “never cries” or is “strictly business” was a false and stifling way to move through life. Yes, the sarcastic asshole makes all the jokes and drops some witty lines, but no one can ever break through the concrete of that person. Now, I am far from being an emotional brick wall. I talk a good game, but when I fall, I fall hard. I love hard. I give everything. And, I still believe that one day, there will be someone authentic and worthy on the receiving end of that hard love.



Quit Waiting For Happiness To Fall Into Your Lap.

Tyece Wilkins 2

See? Happy.

31 Day Writing Challenge Day 28: “A time when you were happy”

Last night, I hit a palpable dating slump. These dips happen on occasion, unexpectedly, as I’m going about my life just fine when I realize that there’s still something missing. And, not only do I realize it, but I also harp on it. Zero in on it. Scrutinize and question the gap. I don’t know what incited yesterday’s pit; it wasn’t anything memorable. But, it happened.

I screamed to the ceiling three consecutive times. I poured a glass of wine, texted my best friend that “I hate dating and I quit” and went on a bit of a Twitter rant about how I don’t have the stamina to date (which is part truth.) I felt like a piece of shit–a single piece of shit, that is.

I decided to sift through my small CD collection until I found Joss Stone’s 2007 album “Introducing Joss Stone.” I listened to it uninterrupted for the next hour, the music serving as both an intoxicant and mild confidence boost.

And, then, I was happy.

I read a quote yesterday that said, “It was like she could only enjoy things in anticipation or as memories.” I find myself guilty of this life modus operandi many times. It’s as though happiness always eludes us because we’re either anticipating it or reflecting on it. But, we rarely let ourselves sink into the pillow of a good moment. Then, it’s gone and we are bliss fiends waiting for the next best thing.

We mistaken happiness for these monumental life moments. We’re always waiting for the right person. The better job. Our big birthday. We’re always leaving our own happiness up to external circumstances, a dependence that is the shortest route to disappointment. Because, there are people who found the right person. There are people who got the better job. There are people who celebrated that big birthday. And, you know what? Some of those people are still unhappy souls with their own set of issues.

All of these small yet beautiful moments are sweeping right past our anticipatory eyes. Waiting for happiness doesn’t make us any happier. It actually makes us quite miserable.

I unplugged and put on Joss Stone last night because I was tired of feeling shitty after all of ten minutes so I was determined to crawl my way to a better mental space. To a certain extent, I can’t control my dating life or meeting the right person, so why expel my end-of-the-day energy into getting all worked up about it?

Happiness isn’t something that is bestowed upon you. It isn’t this sparkly dust that falls on your pretty little head. Happiness isn’t something that happens by default or as a result of specific experiences. Happiness is something you have to fight for every single damn day. Some days you’ll win that battle and some days you won’t, but you still have to fight it. Happiness is something you have to trick yourself into. It’s a feeling that you have to take complete ownership of, lest you spend your life as some debilitated damsel in distress waiting to be loved.




Posted in 30 day writing challenge, ladies, love, single ladies | Tagged emotions, happiness, happy, | 1 Reply

Don’t Give Fate Too Much Credit.

31 Day Writing Challenge Day 27: “What’s your superstition?”

I was hell bent on foregoing today’s writing challenge topic at first, certain that after 26 days of writing, I couldn’t come up with anything compelling to say about superstitions. I announced this in a tweet and my friend sent me a definition.

Superstition: A notion maintained despite evidence to the contrary

Ahh, yes. I can work with that.

Last night, I watched Part 3 of the Real Housewives of Orange County reunion where Vicki Gunvalson defended her relationship with a guy Brooks whom her daughter Briana absolutely hates. Briana recalled a host of disparaging remarks Brooks had made both to her and about her as he clumsily tried to deny them. It was the exact recipe that makes for entertaining reality television. But, at the end of the segment when Vicki broke down into heavy sobs saying, “I just want my family back,” it became apparent that this wasn’t good TV. It was people’s lives being toyed with and it was no longer fun to watch. Vicki maintained the notion that Brooks was both a good man and her soulmate despite the raging forest fire encircling her.

I have experienced my fair share of assuredness about men who were entirely wrong for me. And, typically, I knew they were wrong for me, whether it was their outright declarations of being madly in love with someone else or the outcry of people around me advising me to run in the other direction. I usually never listened, opting instead to believe in some crummy justification for why this person was meant for me. And, usually, I got beat over the head with reality in the end.

Each of us has had convictions about people, especially lovers, that have proven to be totally bogus. When we are laser-focused on extracting love and admiration from one person, it becomes easy to zone out, go deaf and ignore the sirens and flashing red lights around us.

Yes, to borrow one of the most popular clichés of all time, sometimes what is meant to be will be. But, I don’t think a trite expression should be used to excuse being blind to the signs or, worse, ignoring them even after you see them. It’s easy to live your life with your head in the clouds and a lot harder to bring that cranium back down to Earth and acknowledge what’s going on around you. It’s easy but also pretty daft to maintain bullshit notions despite all evidence to the contrary.