Im not your bitch,hoe, slut, dime piece or anything your lame ass 'swag' decides to dub me

Im tired of being referenced to as anything less than a Queen over a dope beat and a fresh hook.
Im tired of hearing all the masagonestic venacular that one man can think up while holding a blunt and smackin ass.
Im tired of being rated on my ass at all.

Im not your trophy dime piece. Your future wifey. Your bitter baby mama. Your bottom bitch. Your ghetto hoodrat. Contrary to popular belief, Im not tryin to be your golddigger.

My name is Christine; whats good?

I have more to offer than a pretty face and a rumpshaka. I have more to say than "yes" and "I can go lower". I have more ambitions that to simply belong to you...

The misconceptions that I, or any of my fellow Queens, are here to "have a baby by you and be a millionaire" are ridiculous. My future is blinding with possibility and, shockingly, it extends past your sperm.

Let me repeat - having a baby is possibly the slowest way ever to be a millionaire. So thanks, but no thanks, broke ass lame ass tryin-to-put-rimes-on-your-caddy mofo.

And try as you may to believe it, Im not tryin to "tie you down", "be a groupie hoe" or keep you from livin your 'great life'.

Trust when I tell you, things only get better from the moment you meet me, and it will be YOU not I tryin to make me settle; in more ways than one.

Im past wanting the joke of a dream I see in videos. I dont want to be your video vixen. I dont want to be the girl over the hood of your bently. I dont want to be on my knees, waiting in line with the 'others'...

Im not asking for much, but the caliber of my Queens has weined. Right now, I will restart the revolution.

I demand respect for me. My mind, my body, my thoughts, my ideas, my opinions, my spirit, my goals, my ambitions, my desires, my cravings, my urges, my hopes, and my dreams.

Sometimes I may want to be your fiesty girl, and if I ever choose to, it will be because I choose to; because I know you appreciate and respect me for what I am and what I offer and not for some plaything you want in the moment. Dont underestimate my willful 'sin'; i can be your 'naugthy girl' when I want to.

Dont think you can ever buy me - its never going to be that easy. If you dont want to put in work, step aside and let the next man apply. Because this job needs filling. And its a position for life.

My name is Christine, and yes, that is exactly what you can call me.

Dear Kate Moss

~While I am not a huge fan of yours overall, I FULLY support your comment that "Nothing taste's as good as skinny feels". No where in that self-imposed maxim did you suggest, imply or condone anorexia, bulimia, diarrhea or any other -ia that folks use to curb their figure.
Sorry - i call bullshit on the media.
And any woman worth her weight in honesty will subtly agree that there has NEVER, in the history of food, been anything as delicious as fitting into a pair of skinny jeans or into a top and looking FAB! Without tugging or pulling, or sacrificing breathing to fit into your clothes. Without using the mirror to offer reassurance, but instead using the mirror like a play thing because you know you look that good. 'Don't tease me', you think...
We all have our forbidden food rules that regulate our guilt vs our gluttony and this just so happen to be the motto of an international supermodel.
So KUDOS to you Kate, for saying what women have always mumbled to themselves when pining over the last cake, cookie, or carb of any form....

Infatuation

Suddenly, I wonder how I never knew you.
How I have managed to come this far in life...
do this much...
be this happy....
without having you by my side.
This is infatuation and I cant think with my head. Insomnia from
Not seeing the rest of you is causing me to lose sleep
lose hope
lose sight
of what it was that I did before I met you.
Was there a 'before I met you'?
Presumably so. But this is infatuation. and true to cliche, I have to have more.
Of your smile. and your lips. of your laugh and your jib. More of your swagger and your sin. More. Always more.
This is infatuation and sensibility has left the building.
I feel overwhelmed by the underwhelmed thoughts of me sans you.
Sans my girly giggles and giddy fantasies.
My inhibitions flee for cover and me, raw and real, finds you waiting...
anticipating my arrival. Ready.
We do what we want and whenever the urge overpowers, when we want.
This is infatuation and bad ideas have taken hold.
But I'm with you and truly, fuck the world because we are here.

S.O.S: No strings attached...

I have a theory. It isn't proven in any journal or acclaimed anywhere, but it is a tried and true sort of 'Murphy's Law'. And truly,that's all the proof I need.

Dating is fun - until it stops. And in it's place, settles drama.

I don't mean to insinuate that all dating leads to drama, but I will contend that any sort of relationship, friend or otherwise, has the ability to lead to drama. And that, includes dating.

I have experienced such of the like recently, and lucky me, from a few different point of views.
And as I scratch my head like, huh?, I always land on the same question:

When did this get so complicated?

No strings attached? I don't know.
I mean...
Our times are punctuated by reality way too often, still, I cant stay out of a daze with you

... so at a lost for words with each other, I don't know how we've ever spoken at all.

Flirting on the edge of possibility and curiosity; I dare you not to miss me. But please don't call my bluff.

When did this get so complicated? I don't know.
But I'm willing to work it through.

It vs. Me

You tick...
And I run for the hills. I ask, 'how high?' and 'can I do it faster?' Where would you like me; it? Here? How about here? Is this better?
I think I can, I think I can...
Go faster, further, harder, stronger,. It can always be done better.
Why? Because
You tock...
And my anxiety builds. I feel your second's hand on my neck, down my back,breathing heavy
heavier
heaving in my right ear. Go; don't stop, 'til the end. But it never comes. My hands hold a vicious fever and both are burning ­ a pyro's dream set ablaze with midnight oil and a wick burning from both ends. My eyes are weary from the heat as I look up. Another
Tick...
There is never enough of you and yet all I do is crave more. Always more-don't deny me. But you do. Our tumultuous rendezvous keep me, controlling my right hand and all it's mass production. I stare and look for you incessantly; needing your approval and acceptance, cringing at the thoughtof your shame. The slender fingers of your grip teasing me to continue amidst the countdown, when it comes.
Tock...

The pressure heightens and my burden increases. Working with less and expecting more; always more. The pen can't move across fast enough, left to right left to right, and the fever hits a dangerous peak. I feign exhaustion, begging for the relief only you can provide. But you don't. We both know I can't, I wont; neither of us will allow the buzzer to time me out.

Go; don't stop 'til the end...but it never comes.

Sipology Illusions

The ever eclipsing moon is high in the sky above where I sit; silent, but restless.
Just waiting.
For what I am not exactly sure - yet I will know it when I see it. Feel it. Hear it.
I've been here longing for what seems like a lifetime -twenty one years- and while alot has caught my eye, very rare have things caused me to turn my head.

As I sit tonight, a man, small and frail, but full of hope and belief, passes through the doorway of my perched spot. Even as he hesitantly walks, I feel his positive optimism; not because he is overtly so, but because it is so genuine and suprisingly unjaded. He is older, 60's perhaps, and it is apparent to any who look that he has be directed down the rubble-ridden road of life; the fortunate ones, like myself, have been given the guided tour thus far. My guides? Chance, destiny, opportunity or simply the distant idea of luck that have kept me kept. But not for him.

He smiles to the blase strangers who instanly give him the defensive death eye and force him away with their ignorance. He hasent had the necessary dose of societal conformaty's to be out and about with people who thrive on such things. To him, no words are spoken as he shuffles his feet away, and although they know better, words would actually be useless; he is deaf. He feels their shuns, and turns - only to turn back around and graciously hand them a worn, consequently weatherd, note in the same classic cursive most older people use.
The kind that has written years of letters and correspondence; in this case, mercy pleas.
His note reads of being deaf his whole life and uneducated, assuring them he is of the best intentions and simply would like to know if they have anything to spare. Albeit they cannot read over the blinders of naivete.
Shunned again, and again, and again...
he spiritually picks himself up and smiles his seemingly signiture facade to the last strangers, and proceeds to the doorway he came through. The doorway that brought him into my view.

He passes and in doing so, his note wistfully slips from his meak hands and lands on the wooden slates next to my feet. It is now, under this eclipsed moon, that I turn my head...

Intruige

Things have become muddy. Fast.

Faster than most may have predicted given the laiseez faire persona we both candidly embody.
'Between the sheets' evolved to the lofty sweet nothings whispered in my ear as we lay...

unable to sleep until all was quenched.

We quickly forgoed the customary public renouncement; silently choosing instead to slip gentle hellos and secretive smiles amist the unspoken ethos that surronds us.

What occurs after dusk is long erased from our composure by dawn, but the smirks alone are enough to prosecute us as truly guilty.

Yet our enjoyable lucidity has been jaded by confusion, dilusion, and mistaken ideas of grandeur, which at best is presumptuous; worst, "dissapointing". The natural inclination to aspire to something, albeit, truly wanting nothing but enjoyment and security to fully dive in....

Alas, our playing fields of preference are off the richter and there seems to be no mutual ground for reconsideration.