gravity-burst.

thinking of sporting a much more muted russell westbrook look with this zodiac blouse. thoughts?

watermelon pochette from p.johnson (via esperanzapinatelli) (via raydennis)

(via dirtand-roses) (via killerinstinct) all day, every day.

the dark one by young davis.

(via michaelmcgee) (via bitchville)

i was trying to nap, but then i didn’t end up napping because i got carried away on the internet.

that will be the title of my midlife memoir. (via sade)

the secret of their endurance.

got suckered into a networking event for work. dinner kicked off the festivities, with hefty wine pairings for all.

i sat beside two ladies — one a photographer, another a pr consultant — both in their early 40s who eventually got pretty drunk after the wine guzzling and invited me out to the club with their husbands by the end of the evening (excalibur beckons y’all, hollerrr). politely declined, of course.

the pr consultant spent some generous time trying to convince me that destination weddings are the way to go. sometime between her naming off cities and ranting about shitbag friends, a couple running late sat down and got acquainted with our roundtable bunch of 8 on the verge of tipsy. this couple has been married for 52 years! high school sweethearts and all that mushy gushiness.

conversations shifted in their direction with “what’s your secret?” like questions, and they answered with big smiles and the word “love” affirmed in every other sentence. when the wife turned away to talk to a server, her husband quickly turned his head in our direction and whispered a few things, declaring the following “the truth”.

for a few years it’s puppy love, then real love, then you get bored, then you hate each other, then there are years that are all about the kids, then you’re in love all over again. going at it a lot helps, too.

love it.

yanj can’t remember my real middle name

so she tells people it’s quisha. guess i can live with that.

despite my insane love for showtunes, forbidden broadway spoofs really get me goin’.

underwear and hidden cameras.

my ma is notorious for being the bearer of advice in how (and why) to put up fronts while also expecting to ‘be yourself’ and to ‘not care what other people think’.

(que, ma? que?)

amongst other things she likes to say in repetition, there are classics like

• always have clean underwear on plus an extra one in your purse
• act like a hidden camera is capturing your every move

first of all, the underwear thing. her logic is if i ever get in an accident and there’s a need to strip off my clothes at least i won’t be embarrassed by tattered undergarments.

o_O

i can’t even count how many times in my childhood to this day she has asked “do you have an extra panty in your bag?” (complete with filipino mom accent and all).

and if my everyday involved a hidden camera, i’d be one lovable motherfucker.

maybe it’s my ability to find a salsa rhythm while belting out tunes from the tangled soundtrack, to freak out like the apocalypse is coming when i burn myself with the flat iron, to schmear a half-inch thick of expensive pâté onto $1 crackers from aldi and guzzle down a dr. pepper, to dance in front of the mirror mocking dancing with the stars cats, to spend longer picking out a nail color than reworking a new resume, to yell at the tv looking for at least vince carter-like slam dunk contest material (dominique wilkins / michael jordan days preferred though) that would make me a hit reality show.

give her credit for the absurdity. though i don’t always take her advice, i remember it.