Because you miss me so much.

You'll wanna take a gander at the latest post on my other blog, Mama Maria's Makin' It Work. It's called "So You Wanna Be a Dominatrix?"

My exploding ego will be on hiatus.

At least for a little while.

By this I mean: I will be blogging over at themusingbroads.co.nr for the time being. Lots of work-related issues I wanna dive into, and I just don't have the time and energy to do both blogs.

Before I go, though, I want to leave you all with this tidbit: I'm staying. I'm at least 95% sure of it. I think an overwhelming sense of frustration led me to want to go, and that, though it's a good idea, it's a better idea to choose "fight" instead of "flight." It helps that Mei offered to make me a full-time employee by the end of the year, thus ending my quest for steady/good income. It also helps that I have the most awesome friends in the world. I love you all so much.

XO-M

Back to my old tricks.

As much as I hate to admit it, I'm a spin doctor; I always have been. My powers of manipulation have made almost every situation work in my favor, and I control the thoughts of people who have influence. I do this involuntarily; after attempting to quelch my instinct to do so, I now know that trying is pointless. It's ingrained in me.

Thing is, I honestly believe that everyone tries to be a spin doctor, and in a way, everyone is a spin doctor. The inflection of your voice as you tell a story, your word choice, the subtle physical cues you use - those are all to persuade the audience of something, because, as any political campaign can tell you, "It's not the truth that counts. It's what passes for the truth."

Rewind to this past Thursday. My hormones were out of whack. I was crying every fifteen minutes. Every little thing upset me. I was seriously suicidal for all of half an hour. And just a day before, I was on top of the world, conquering every obstacle thrown at me and loving it. This, dear reader, is why a therapist once suggested that I'm bi-polar.

Every sound out of my mouth was a scream or a holler or a yelp or a cry. Every tear made me shiver and quake. The depression that hit was deep and all-consuming. I couldn't face the thought of leaving my room and dealing with things. No work, no writing, no people. Everything just added to the melee of confusion that attacked me. So I refused to do anything. I stayed home and hardly communicated with the outside world. I slept and cried and ate a bit and repeated the process. I thought about slitting my wrists, then laughed at the idea.

It was in this state that I decided on leaving the country. It came as a revelation, and just as soon as the thought was formed into words and I spoke those words aloud, I felt an overarching sense of relief. Somehow, there existed a plan of action that didn't make me feel more burdened; it was whole and perfect and encompassed everything that I needed to feel all right. In one fell swoop, it canceled out all of the issues that had surfaced within my deep state of depression, and it made me feel better about my situation and my life.

I can't tell for sure, but I think I called people that night. Who I talked to and what was said, I can't really say. Some of the people I remember speaking to have been dead a long time. Some of the people I thought I spoke to tell me they didn't speak to me that night. All I know for sure is that, somehow, I managed to tire myself out and fall asleep. The next day, I woke up and I was fine.

No. Not fine. I haven't been fine in a while. I've been walking the line between crazy and normal, and I know it (and this makes me think that I must be okay, because crazy people don't know when they're crazy). I was mired in residual feelings of laziness. It was hard to get out of bed. I couldn't bring myself to go to work on time. But unlike in the past, I knew all of this and I didn't care; I was no longer afraid of the consequences and feeling guilty about the situation. I thought, "So what if I don't [insert responsibility here]? My first responsibility is to myself, and fuck what anyone has to say to that."

Like so many platitudes and cliches, there is a strand of truth in this line of thinking which makes it difficult to argue. Most people who try to argue with me are immediately shut down because I don't like the way they approach the issue. Some people [read: close friends], I can't help but listen to. However, in the end, more often than not, I stick to my guns. Another platitude about self-reliance rings in my head: "Who can you trust if not yourself?"

I've become enamored with thoughts about fate and destiny. I am zealous about controlling my own fate and loathe the idea that it might be subjected to someone else's plans or whims. I am paranoid that other people might attempt to exercise their influence over my life, and I am angered by the notion that I might be stupid and weak enough to allow them this ability. In the end, only I can be held accountable for what happens to me, and I don't want to be disappointed with myself.

But what do I do now?

I am standing at a precipice, facing the choice of staying in New York City and taking the more conventional route of growing up. If this plan of action is followed, I will lick my wounds, horde my money, get my own place, and find a sense of dignity in joining the masses. I will feel as though I have accomplished a phase that society has deemed necessary, and I will soak in the praise of the ordinary people who will recognize in me the same obstacles they've faced. But more than that: I will, for the first time, compare myself to the masses. I will feel safe and comforted from having chosen to be more conventional, from using the accepted norm as a measure for what I should do or who I should become. I will know that, despite the outcome of my life, there will be a safety net to catch me: people will understand my choices and they will relate to me. This route is personified my Mei.

But, on the other hand, is the less conventional route: the complicated and seemingly perverse route which includes leaving the country and starting anew. It is the choice that seems more natural to me, the choice that most people do not have, the choice that is extraordinary. The parts of me that are inherently from my parents love this choice. It exemplifies everything that is unconventional and quirky and misunderstood and strange and out-of-the-ordinary. In short, it exemplifies everything that I am. It is a vastness of contradiction, i.e., In order to get to the end result of "acceptable norm" I will go through a very "unacceptable ab-norm". It fortifies me with something that most people do not have, and maybe, that's what all of this is really about. Maybe I've come to accept that I am most certainly not like most people, and that's okay: I don't want to be like most people.

*****

This choice is difficult for me to make because I'm being told by Mei that my original way of thinking - aka, the way that makes me want to leave the country - is not healthy.

But maybe, despite all of Mei's understanding and tolerance, my way of thinking is simply out of the bounds of her understanding. Maybe it's simply too unconventional for her - and thus relegated to the realm of unhealthy. What if the risks that I'm taking are simply not the risks that Mei would take? Who's to say what normal is, anyway? And how can anyone know what is healthy?

*****

I've lied to Mei. I told her that a family emergency caused me not to go to work. I told her that Rob's landed a job. I've said that I've started going to therapy. I know that whatever I choose to do in the long-run, it won't be what she wants for me.

If I was going to therapy, the therapist would probably ask why I feel the need to lie to Mei. I'd say that lying facilitates having a relationship with Mei; being honest with her only leads to arguments and confrontation, and I've come to the conclusion that what I want from her isn't mentorship: it's money. In a strictly work environment, I have to responsibility to her to be honest and open about my life, so I'm retracting from what I'd previously done.

*****

I've long ago come to the conclusion that there is nothing in the world that is right - or - wrong, black - or - white. There are shades of gray, and those are the shades that we live in. None of us have definitive answers. Those who claim to have answers are usually the ones grasping hardest at straws, hoping to find a way of consoling themselves.

But strength lies in standing on one's own, familiarizing one's self with the terrain of their personality, and catering to that personality despite what other people might say or do. Strength resides in the faith one has in him/herself. Strength is tolerating negativity and overcoming obstacles - especially when you're something that most people don't understand.

And yet, on the flip side of things, there are, I'm sure, ways to the contrary of being strong. And within the seemingly concrete edifice of my definition of "strength" there are indeed gray areas, dents and nooks and crannies, in which contradictory ideas reside. I will venture on a limb and say that I know all of these sides of strength, and after all is said and done, there will be no one who can doubt my strength of will and character.

Therein lies the problem.

With an add-on

The last few days have been especially hard. My mom's been in and out of the hospital, my brother's thousands of miles away (in the Philippines), and my father and I are still at a stalemate. On Tuesday night, a man followed me home from work, and what followed was a sea of emotions: pride and empowerment from having handled the situation well, confusion and befuddlement from having two parts of my world clash. On the one hand he was fulfilling a desire that was somewhat assisted from the part I play at work; on the other hand, this is real life motherfucker.

What followed the unsettling feeling was a decision: Call Rob; he'll make me feel better. But even though we'd agreed that he'd be glued to his phone while I'm coming home from work; even though I called him, frantic, a dozen times; even though I texted him and called his house and even called from a payphone (I'm not sure why that seemed like a relevant idea), I was left hanging. The one person that I depend on to be there for me was not there for me. Because he was asleep.

Believe me when I say that I am patient with Rob. I give him the benefit of the doubt. Hell, I even lie to myself about him. All this just so that we have a shot in hell of working out. But when he doesn't provide for us financially and he doesn't help out emotionally and he can't even pick up a fucking phone when I'm being stalked from work - then what the fuck do I need him for?

We haven't had sex in more than a week, which is a huge deal for us. We argue all the time, which isn't necessarily a new development. What is a new development is the feeling of loneliness that's permeated my side of the relationship. I no longer feel like I am part of a couple. I no longer trust that Rob will pull through for me in any capacity. I have lost faith in us, ergo there is no Us.

And maybe that's why I am no longer comfortable in Rob's mom's house. Between the many times that I've screamed ridiculously loud at Rob and the fights that we've had; between the lack of boundaries within the house and the constant pressure to socialize; between the notion that I need a feeling of family and the magnification of a lack thereof within this house - I don't like it here. I want to leave as soon as possible.

But there's a problem: my lack of money and my lack of decision. There is a small nagging part of me that wants to jump ship. It is the part of me that says, "I know you're domming and consulting and you've started a blog with your two friends - but face it, dearie, you ain't no pauper. You gotta have dough and you don't want it to hinge on your punani. You're not happy with things the way they are."

And, yeah: that voice is right.

As much as I appreciate all that Mei's done for me, and I truly respect and admire sex workers who make the profession work for them - I can't depend on a paycheck that's built on my ability to be feminine. Not in the body-woman kind of way, and not in a slutty-for-show kind of way. And the reason for this isn't only that my feelings of femininity are flimsy - it's also because the pay is flimsy, too.

I can't depend on a regular, steady paycheck, and that makes my line of work seem more like a gig than a career. Yeah, I said it: I wouldn't mind making a career out of being a dominatrix. But a career implies that the pay is steady and the hours set. This is not so, and therefore I have to search elsewhere.

Had I known that things would be this hard on my own? Absolutely! I even fetishized the difficulty in being independent. But now that the new car smell has worn away, and I am less than a week away till my birthday, I'm feeling torn. That part of me who relished doing things the hard way, who bore the brunt of everything with a smile, who knew that every obstacle only made her stronger - she's tired of being strong and noble. She wants to take the easy way out. And, honestly, I can't blame her.

I think to myself: what is the best case scenario [short of finding a suitcase full of cash under my bed]? And I think to myself, I need a short-term solution that will manifest itself into a long-term solution. I need to land a job that pays really well, and I need to do it right now.

But jobs like that aren't exactly everywhere, and most of them are professions I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. Moreover, the ones that seem like a good idea inevitably turn into short-term prospects with no chance of becoming a long-term career.

Enter my mom, who has reserved a ticket to the Philippines. I'm considering going back to the original plan: going overseas, teaching English, and getting a nursing degree. I'm thinking about parlaying that nursing degree into a house and a physician's assistance degree when I get back to the States in 3 years. I'm daydreaming about tropical weather and my own house where I'll set boundaries and be able to afford the good life. I'm telling myself that I can still blog with the girls and write incessantly and send out my work to agents - but now I'll be emotionally and financially comfortable.

I have only a week to decide.

Add-on: I went in to see Mei and she corrected me. "You don't need to make a boatload of cash right now," she said with a glint in her eye. "You want to make that money. There's supposed to be a disconnect between what you want and what you need, and not having it isn't healthy."

I explained to her that bridging the disconnect is exactly why I get everything I want. I don't just focus on the things that are necessary; I attempt to accomplish the impossible. I don't limit my options and say, "I can have this or that." Instead, I say to myself, "What can I do to ensure that I have this and that?"

"But that's not healthy," Mei kept saying. "You have to make a decision. What do you need more?"

"If I can have both, why do I need to make a decision?"

"Because you can't have both."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not possible."

"But what if it is possible?"

"It's not."

And that, right there, is why I'm still considering going to the Philippines. I want to be able to make money and be creative, and I feel like this option will give me both.

The truth is, I don't do "poor" well, and at this point in the game, I don't want to do it if I don't need to do it. So why the fuck not go to the Philippines?

Sure, it's unconventional and will leave Mei disappointed - but I have more responsibility to myself than I have to her. And, sure, I'll miss New York City and all of my friends and family - but in this day and age, they're only as far as a computer or a phone. I've come to a conclusion about who I am and what I need, and it doesn't necessarily mesh with what others think of me and what others think I need - and that's okay. Part of growing up is facing truths that are uncomfortable, and dealing with them.

Shameless Plug

I've teamed up with two of my closest friends-cum-writing buddies, Annamarya and Deena, to become The Musing Broads. Every week, we'll be answering your questions about love, life and the pursuit of sexiness, and ya never know what we'll say! This week, for example, we got two rather spindly and long emails from women who don't know what to do about their love interests.

Ya got questions? We've got answers.

So this is what it feels like to be successful!

For the first time ever, things are really going my way. I'm making good money, working at jobs that I *love* with people I *adore*, and fully aware of what's coming up next.

Life gets more interesting and fulfilling with each passing minute, and I'm not wasting any time. This is productivity at its finest.

This here quarter-life crisis is passing me by. And. It. Feels. So. Good.

Off the top of my head, 15 things that are going on with me:

1) I'm hooking up my friend, Sasha, who's intense and has a very *ahem* colorful past, with a friend of Rob's brother, Ryan, who's got PTSD and is a retired Army Sgt.

2) Two of my closest friends and best writer-buddies have asked me to start a website with them. It's called "The Musing Broads" and will offer advice on everything from health and dating, to career and house-hunting.

3) Ryan (from #1) has finished a book, and I'm helping him shop it around to independent publishers and literary agents. Makes me kinda think I belong in publishing. But then I remember how much I loathe being tied down by a set schedule, and I very much love my freelance lifestyle.

4) As a big-tittied Asian woman, I'm hauling in lots of cash as a dominatrix. Unfortunately, it's all getting sucked into the black hole that is my debt. Hopefully, I'll soon be able to save some. Soon is the operative word. Only problem is, what with it being an election year and the dungeon having been out-of-business for a month, the clients are few and far between.

5) My own writing is going really well. That is, when I find the time to write.

6) Two things I'm buying asap: a cell phone and a laptop. Rob and I have been sharing his cell phone - "Love, don't worry about spending money on a phone bill. Just use my phone. I hardly use it anyway." - since I moved in with him. But the bill hasn't gotten paid and I need a cell phone in order to keep freelancing at all my jobs. And, technically, I have a laptop - only it's riddled with viruses and really bulky. I need one that I can take everywhere with me.

7) I've filled out the paperwork so that I can be re-admitted to school in the Spring. The way things are going, I'll only have time to take two classes, but cest la vie. I need to make some money, and that degree ain't goin' nowhere.

8) Right up there, on my list of things to do, alongside "Buy a cell phone", "Buy a laptop", "Go back to school", and "Make money", is "Get My Own Place." Things fell through with Asia and she's attempted to hook me up with another viable roommate option, but I'm not feelin' the idea of looking for a place when I don't have the steady income flow. Once the money gets good and steady, I'll be outta Rob's place quicker than you can bat a lash.

9) I love Rob and things are overall going aiight with him. Only... I... Just... Don't... Wanna... Be... Tied... Down. [Right now.]

Yeah.

There.

I said it.

10) I went to my cousin's fabulous lesbian wedding last weekend, and I'm going to California next weekend to attend another cousin's fabulous straight wedding. Plus, I'm making plans to spend some time in Miami this January. Look at me, all jet-setting!

11) My little brother is leaving for the Philippines this Sunday. My folks have already warned him: Once he's gone, he ain't comin' back till he's earned his degree. I'm gonna miss the little booger, but I know that this is what's best for him.

12) I've signed up for therapy at a really reputable place. It's so reputable, in fact, that there's a waiting list. *sigh* I'm hoping that they don't call me back while I don't have a phone; it would suck if I lost my place in line.

13) Rob's thisclose to securing a job as a barback. I'm really hoping that he'll get it, but at the same time I don't wanna get disappointed. The thing is, our main argument is that I feel I'm running around being productive while his ass is coasting on his parents' coattails. I don't want a house-husband.

14) I caught wind of a baby that might need rescuing. Her parents are teenage drug addicts who are supposedly too stupid and lazy to stand on line for WIC checks. Don't worry. I'm gonna do something about it. And, no, I'm not adopting her.

15) Despite the fact that I'm making good money, I'm still looking for a more steady part-time gig. Something with reliable hours/money would be great. I mean, yeah, I love having the flexibility to make my own schedule, but that depends on too many variables, and I need a job where I get paid for basically sitting around for a set amount of time.


Overall, I gotta say: I feel good. Really, really good.

This is why I'm considering therapy.

Ya know how when you're watching a movie, and it's a thriller or a suspense flick, and something happens to make you scream at the screen, "Why are you doing that?! You know that's not right!"?

It doesn't matter if it's the girl in the heels entering a scary house, or the teenage couple fucking in a car on a deserted street, or the Scooby Gang deciding to split up - you just know it's a bad idea.

Well, I'm not as big on movies as I'd like, but I remember very well that feeling of "Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?!" I remember it almost as well as I remember watching certain movies - Momento comes to mind - and thinking to myself, "What if that was me? How would that feel? What if I seriously didn't realize what was going on?"

Maybe it's my innate creativity (or my hustler prowess?) that forces me to empathize with people, but I've always prided myself on being able to figure people out. I've always been good at seeing all the dimensions of a person and being able to cater to as many of them as the occasion calls for. It's not far-fetched of me to consider the possibility of being schizophrenic or clinically depressed. It's not a big leap to see how much I have in common with the homeless geriatric war vet on the corner.

*****

My brother bought me the tools I needed to alter a dress, so a few days ago I went to Queens to pick up the stuff. I have to take the 2 train to the shuttle to the C train to the A train in order to get to my folks' place, and before I reached the shuttle, I couldn't help but notice a middle-aged, white, balding, man. He was dressed in pressed jeans that were pulled up to his waist, and he wore a matching stone-washed denim jacket. There was a braided brown leather belt holding his pants to his gut, and a red plaid button-down shirt underneath his unbuttoned jacket. On his face were glasses, and on his right hand was a gold wedding band.

I remember looking him over and deciding that he was probably in town for his first gay rendezvous. There was a distinct aura of "foreigner" about him, as if he, too, did not fully comprehend what he was about. He carried two large pieces of luggage and was probably on his way to JFK airport to go back to his wife and kids.

I watched as this man took the shuttle to the C to the A. I watched as the woman sitting next to me pointed out which train he should take to the airport. I saw the man get out of the A train at Rockaway Boulevard.

Everything made sense.

I went to my folks' place, had lunch with my mom and brother, played with my dog. I picked up a crapload of clothes and headed back to the train station. I'd spent maybe three hours at my folks' place, and I had to hurry to Brooklyn so that I could take a shower before going to work.

I remember missing the train by a fraction of a second; if I'd have quickened my pace by the most minute of speeds, I would've made it in time. But, instead, I stood on the train platform and waited for the next train, and boarded it when the opportunity arrived. I took a seat by the window and stared out into the neighborhood that used to be my own. When I reached Rockaway Boulevard, I noticed a teenage girl: very pale, with bleached blond hair and wearing all black. Her big, baggy jeans reminded me of Jnco Jeans; they were all the rage when I was in junior high school, and coming back to Queens always makes me nostalgic. Her top was tight, making her lithe frame all the more noticeable. The black bandana on her head made it unclear whether she was designating herself as a goth kid or a wanna-be gangsta.

I watched this girl from across the platform. She sat on one of those large, metal, beige-painted boxes in which are housed the train station's cleaning materials. She was looking down at her hands, and thinking about something very intently. I imagined that she was thinking about something very important: the state of the world, her future, how hard it is to live. I projected onto her things that I know far too well: drama, chaos, hardships, responsibilities, adulthood. I felt that in making her like me, I would be less alone. But of course, none of this I knew at the time.

I was just thinking and letting my mind wander, and holding her in my gaze as my train left the station. It was not until now, as I'm sitting here, in a house that is not mine, in a room that is not mine, that I realize all of this probably led up to my thoughts.

But, anyway, those were my thoughts as my train left the station, and I saw this girl - young, impressionable, finding her way - on the opposite platform, heading to a place I'd just come from. I felt like I was leaving her behind to fend for herself.

*****

My thoughts were jumbled and cloudy as I made the trek back to Brooklyn. These days, that is not unusual, and I attribute that fact to my lack of sleep and nutrients. I joke with my friends that I'm on the "too broke to eat more than once a day diet." The truth is, my appetite is diminished. Even at weddings and baby showers and parties, when there is a large, lavish spread of food, I am unable to eat. Delicacies and choice cuts of meat are piled high around me, and people are prodding me to eat! eat! eat!, and I can't bring myself to fill my stomach. I think, "What's the use? I'll only have to refill it again."

On my shoulder was a large duffel bag filled with clothes, jewelry, hair clips. There was a bag of weed in it, too - something that I'd bought right before leaving my folks' place - and I walked to the end of the platform to keep away from a cop. It was nearly deserted on the far end of the platform, and I busied myself with thoughts of things I have to do. I made mental checklists and crossed things out one by one.

When the shuttle arrived, I found a seat by the conductor's booth, and when I looked up, there was the white man with the two suitcases and a gold wedding band on his right hand. To my left was the teenage girl dressed all in black.

I kept on staring at them. I wanted to ask the white man, "Didn't I see you on the train earlier?" I wanted to ask the teenage girl, "How is it possible that you're on the same train as me when I know I saw you on the opposite side of the platform, heading to Queens?" But I was too scared to open my mouth. At that point, I'd already begun to doubt myself, and this was brand-new to me. It's one thing to doubt my decisions, but to doubt my senses? To not be able to trust what I see?

It was all too much.

I got back home, showered, and readied myself for work. That night, there were no clients. Rob's favorite uncle passed away. I felt alone and adrift, with no one to understand or help me.

*****

The next morning, I watched as Rob opened the door to the basement and disappeared down the stairs. From my vantage point, I saw his head bobbing as he drunkenly stepped. I went downstairs to make sure that he'd be okay, that he wouldn't bump his head on the low ceiling or fall on the awkwardly-placed steps. But the basement was empty. He hadn't walked down the stairs.

I intellectualized the events, figured that I'd projected onto Rob my desire to have him do laundry in the basement. Then I found him in his cousin's bedroom. I called his name and he came to me, and even though he held me and smiled at me, I felt as if he were clutching air. When he walked away, I saw him enter the bathroom, turn on the light and close the door so that it was partially ajar. I could see the light spilling out of the doorway. I could see his image in the bathroom mirror. I called out to him and when he didn't come out, I went into the bathroom - and it was empty.

Almost frantic, I called to him again and again, and finally he re-emerged from his cousin's bedroom, which is directly opposite from the bathroom. I told him that I could've sworn he went into the bathroom, and he just laughed.

*****

Always, after something like this happens, I feel like there's been a disruption in the space-time continuum. It's like my life was paused and something was changed, and when play was hit again, I could feel the shift but not explain it. It's like those moments in the movies when you know that something is wrong or that something will happen or that the director will play with your head - but you're not really sure why it's affecting you so much. You can't really tell why you care that the couple in the car will be killed or the Scooby Gang will see a ghost. You just know that something unusual, extraordinary, and strange will occur, and that this person, these people, this moment will have to face a reality that you could never even fathom.

No matter how much discipline or preparation or life experience I have, there is something I'm not ready for. And it's out there, waiting, plotting, scheming. It's making me feel paranoid, it's making me feel on-edge, it's making me doubt myself. And it's my job to beat it.

Slowly slipping into something altogether different.

What does it mean when someone becomes excited to go to therapy? Is it that they're really hopeful? If so, what for? If not, then what?

I ask because I'm excited at the prospect of starting therapy. Damn near pissing-in-my-pants-excited, actually.

I attribute this to the fact that, for the first time in my life, many many many trusted individuals are telling me that I'm not right in the head and BUM BUM BUMMMMM I'm starting to believe them.

Why?, you ask.

Well, it's hard for me to explain, and that's clue numero uno. [NOTE: I'll elaborate on other reasons in another post.]

I, the over-communicator, am finding it difficult to express the gads of emotions and events that have been happening. There's just too much of it, too much stuff to sift through, too many affairs to keep track of. And I just don't have the time. My workin-more-jobs-than-a-Jamaican ass needs to recuperate from all the stress. I'm so busy multi-tasking that I haven't been able to organize the thoughts, thus making it hard for me to Create. And if therapy will help me overcome my frustration, then bring it on. (A tiny voice whispers in my ear: "It's all for writing.")

What else is up with me?

Oh yes: there is the fact that I've stumbled upon Something Too Grand To Be Named.

Yes, it's true. I, the over-communicator, she who spills the beans on everything from fucking to feces and finds it difficult not to impart to a group of strangers that I whip men for a living - yeah, that me - well, I've found something that is too good to spoil by sharing. Something so beautiful that I can't have anyone knowing about it. It's too beautiful for this world and it escapes definition or elaboration. It feels like an emotion in its purest form, raw and wild and thick in your blood, an adrenaline rush at the moment of action. It feels like the very verb and definition of experience. It cannot be subdued into wordplay.

I never thought such a thing could exist.

Which brings me to a strange juncture: at the point of "can't write but would LOVE to" and "too beautiful to write about" lies a kind of peace. I've always known that every part of life intersects and overlaps, but never before has a chasm seemed so much like a bridge. This here, I'm sure, means something big and important.

After I've gotten more than 3 hours of sleep and have been able to get some down time, I'll fill in the blanks.

Three conversations with Mei.

All I've done since Rob came back from Florida:

1) Sleep in.
2) Hang out with friends and fam.
3) Repeat steps one and two.

It's been good. So very good. I feel relaxed and enlivened and... LAZY!

I know it's probably just a sign of my crazy-compulsive behavior, but now that it's settled in that the most stressful thing I've done in the past 72 is look for a tailor - well, I'm feeling mighty slothful. Fo real. The money-making hustla in me is just screaming to re-emerge.

Thing is, the craziness of my work life will be returning to normal come tomorrow. I'll be working at the women's center tomorrow morning, then off to the dom job from 5 to 11. On Wednesday, I'll be at Mei's, and then I'll be spending 5 to 11 at the dom job again. And on Thursday, I'll be putting the last touches on my outfit for the wedding I'm attending this weekend; then I'll be working the dom job from 5 to 11. In between all that, I'm signing all the papers so I can get readmitted into school, and talking to the folks at the CUNY Honors Academy about getting back my coveted seat. I'm also networking a shit-storm, and trying to rebuild bridges that were recently burned.

Oh, and did I mention that I'm looking for MORE work? Yeah, just in case my schedule isn't crazy enough, I'm requiring myself to earn money for ANOTHER 25 hours per week. At least. Mei's got a lead on a substantial paycheck via office work, and I've found a lead on a few phone sex places that pay $40-60/hour. I thought my days of being a lady of the line were over, but after seeing those kinds of dividends, I say, "Bring it on!"

The other night, when Mei and I were driving out to Nassau, she said to me, "You're very smart and competent, and it doesn't take a lot of money to live. I think you'll be able to find a part-time job that you can live off of, so that you can write in the meantime."

To which I replied: "Yeah, I know you and Nina [one of my mentors from the women's center] think it's cool to just make enough money to get by... but I don't want that for myself. I get bitter if I don't have the funds to do what I want - and I'm not ashamed to admit it, I want to live lavishly."

Mei laughed. "Really?"

"Yeah. No joke."

I left it at that, and Mei appreciated my candor, but what I really wanted to say was, "I know how hard it is when you don't have enough money to do the things people should be entitled to do in a capitalist economy. Like paying my rent/mortgage. And affording to live in a neighborhood or building that I love. And sending myself, and eventually my children, to school. And being able to have the time and money to unwind when I need to de-stress. Those are all things I won't be able to do if I don't give myself enough financial leeway - and if that means working my tail off right now, then so be it."

*****

I saw my soon-to-be-roommate *fingers crossed*, Asia, at a barbecue on Saturday, and the more we talk the more I really think that moving in with her is a great idea.

I really and truly love Rob's mom's house. I love Rob's family, and I love being able to talk to such cool people all the time. Thing is, what with my crazy-hectic schedule and burgeoning hustling prowess, the last thing I need when I get home is more stimulation. What I really need after a looonngg day is a quiet place for my head to relax - and a house full of young people just doesn't fit the bill.

Yeah, I've got mine and Rob's room as a refuge from the chaos, but it doesn't really feel like *mine*. The room feels like *ours*, which is awesome if I wanted to give up all sense of ownership and propriety - but right now, I'm straight Virginia Woolf-ing it. I want a room of my own.

I want to be able to come to a relaxing home: someplace where I've staked claim on things, someplace quiet and comfortable and friendly and comforting. I want my own four walls, which I can paint and decorate. I want my own bed and my own desk and my own collection of books. I want windows that overlook busy streets, and someone stable and reliable and fun and cool (Asia) living a stone's throw away from me.

As much as I love Rob and I appreciate the way he opened his home and family to me, right now, I just really need to get my hustle on full-tilt. I need to be doing things that get me noticed by the right people, and that will make me exorbitant amounts of money. As Crystal says all the time, "I need to get the street outta my system." But at the end of the day, when I'm done expelling all of "the street", I wanna be able to just be easy.

The other night, as Mei was driving me home, she told me that her husband, who's a criminal defense attorney, seriously advises that I stop domming. With it being an election year, the odds are good that my place of employment be raided. And despite the fact the domming and dungeons are perfectly legal, it would be in my best interest to cease and desist all money-earning activity of the sexual variety.

When I wouldn't relent, Mei became even more serious. "If something happens," she said, "call me. Don't hesitate and don't say anything. Just call me and say '911'. Lenny will get you out of jail."

Her motherly attention made me glow. "Thanks, Mei."

"No problem. Lenny does this all the time. You'd be surprised how many of his clients are prostitutes."

Without batting a lash, I laughed appreciatively. "There's one thing you don't have to worry about," I offered, "I'm definitely not going to sell drugs."

"That's good, Maria," she said, her eyes dancing as she steered clear of all the dangers on Flatbush Avenue. "That's really good to know."

*****

I'm scared of my newfound confidence and where it might lead me. Not because I didn't think it existed, or because I think it's wrong in any way - but because it's so new. I've always been very confident and very competent, but somewhere between "assertive" and "arrogant" is a line I've never allowed myself to cross. I now feel myself teetering on the brink of that line, displaying my swagger, testing out the waters - and I wonder where my bravado came from. Unlike two months ago, I save my analyzation and introspection for writing, and only act and react in real life. Unlike four months ago, I am boldly announcing what I want and how I'm going to get it - all the while being completely aware that there will be many people who disagree with me, and/or don't want me to accomplish my goals. Unlike six months ago, I've learned to let go of negative people and negative situations, and to focus on Me.

Last week, while on our way yet again to Nassau, Mei talked to me about entitlement. She said that minorities - Asians, especially - feel a need to overcompensate for our perceived inadequacies. We're taught from a young age that in America, we should expect the short end of the stick - and very rarely are we taught to demand more. She colored the same qualities and actions that I'd written off as "bratty" as "entitled." And as much as I love words, I had to face the fact that much of communication is rhetoric and semantics. Being assertive could just as much be a sign of arrogance as it could be a sign of competence; meaning is found not in a thing itself but in its context. Mei, who I respect and admire, was telling me that it's not only okay but encouragedthat I "unapologetically take what I deserve." It was up to me to figure out where her opinion stopped and truth began.

I retold this story to Texti yesterday, and found myself soaking in Mei's words. The saturation of Mei's influence was undeniable. How much of the new Maria is Mei's doing? Can she claim credit or fault for the small evolutions I've made?

Last night, after hanging out with Texti, I spent the day in bed with Rob, being vomit-inducingly saccharine sweet and lovey-dovey. On the way back to Brooklyn, I had come to the conclusion that we can only uncover in each other traits that are already there. We live as we can and as we must, and we undoubtedly brush up against each other now and again. But the sway and pull of opinions only mean as much as we let them mean, and those of strong character and moral fortitude are not so easily influenced. No where could that be more apparent than in Rob's arms, which, to the chagrin of many of my close friends and mentors, I was happily enfolded by.