July 14, 2007

boys, babies, band-aids, and boobs

Last night, I took the most relaxing, peaceful, calming bath.  The water was steamy and hot with a heavy splash of lavender and chamomile oil.  I was in bath heaven…then Jaymez sent me a text.

 Jaymez:  Why don’t we just get naked and make babies?

 Brooke:  Sounds like a plan to me!

 Jaymez:  BAM! YOU'RE PREGNANT!
              BAM!  YOU'RE PREGNANT!
              BAM!  YOU'RE PREGNANT!

 Brooke:  YES!  But are you going to help me raise these babies?

 Jaymez:  WELFARE!

 Brooke:  Welfare?  HELL NO!  You better be finding an extra job!  No, make that 3 extra jobs.  I know how much money you’re making at your current one!

 Jaymez:  Hahaha-you betta get some jobs yourself!

 Brooke:  I can’t work, I’m pregnant.

 Jaymez:  You could still work.

 Brooke:  I COULD leave you, marry Taye Diggs, and GO have his babies!  Is that what you want?

 Jaymez:  You have to meet Taye Diggs first and pry him from Menzel’s hands.

 Brooke:  Touché.

 Jaymez:  1 for Jaymez.

 Brooke:  Can we still have babies?

 Jaymez:  Well…ok!

 After being excited about having babies with Jaymez, then the shock of him not helping me raise our children, then the shock of him suggesting welfare, then building up enough courage to leave him for Taye Diggs (Which really didn’t take that much courage), then having him slap me with the reality of having to first meet Taye and fighting with Idina for his love, then helplessly crawling back to Jaymez, begging him to take me back and to still have babies with me, I decided it was time to get out of the bath and head for bed.  Then it happened; the reason I have a purple, medicated band-aid on my left nipple.

 I had dried off and was attempting to put on a tank top to sleep in, when my finger nail ripped across my boob, slicing right through my nipple.  Immediately, I grabbed my boob to dull the pain, which was the worst pain imaginable.  I would have rather had a big piano fall on my head, than have to experience pain such as this.  After the initial shock, I slowly pried my hand away to observe the damage.  My poor, poor nipple was bleeding.  I went straight for the medicine cabinet and grabbed a band aide.  As I was applying the small purple band-aid, which I was a little upset about, seeing as the outside of the box indicated that I had the option of purple, green, or blue…I wanted blue.  However, I would have had to cut my entire left boob off to have needed the blue band-aid.  So, I was left with only the choice of purple, the green was even bigger than the blue.  Then, to make my wounded nipple feel better, I sang it a song, “I am stuck on Band-Aid brand cause Band-Aid stuck on my nipple!”  It made us both feel better.

 

Posted by brooke alexandra at 12:28:12 | Permanent Link | Comments (5) |

June 13, 2007

brutally honest

Giggling uncontrollably in the cutest little southern girl accent, “Do you have a boooooyfriend?”

 “Noooooo.”                             

“Why not?”

 “Do yoooooou have a boyfriend?”

 Continued uncontrollable giggling.  “Noooooo!”

 “Why not?”

 “Cause I’m just a kid.  I’m only 7.”

 “Well, I’m just a kid.”

 Silent, dead stare, with her tiny little chin dropped to the floor, “No, you’re not a kid.  You’re old, you’re 25!”

 My head, now hung in shame, “Thank you, but that still doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have a boyfriend.”

 “Maybe you should work on that.”

 “Maybe I should.”

 

Posted by brooke alexandra at 12:55:48 | Permanent Link | Comments (2) |

May 30, 2007

reunited and it feels so good

(Molly, Me, and Maggie)

My life is now a little more complete:  Molly is here.  My world makes a little more sense when she’s in it.  I sleep better at night, or should I say, I have more fun at night when she’s here.  Nothing’s better than a night out with Molly, then the next day, recalling and piecing together the night through pictures and broken, hazy stories.  Aw, the memories.

I met Molly three years ago.  You can read more about that here.  We spend the majority of our friendship talking on the phone, updating each other on our lives and whereabouts.  Then, come May, she comes back to me, where we spend the next four months joined at the hip.

I could spend hours telling stories and conversations the two of us have shared, but most only make sense to us.  So, I will neither bore you nor confuse you with them.   Oh, why not?  I will leave you with this conversation we had Sunday night/early Monday morning.  It sums up our friendship quite nicely.

Brooke:  “Do you remember…?”

Molly:  “YES!”

Brooke:  “And the….?”

Molly:  “And that guy, with the…”

Brooke:  “And then you…”

Molly:  “YES!  OH MY GOSH, that night was SOOO crazy and SOOO fun.”

Brooke:  “Ahh…………………”

Molly:  “Ahh…………………”

Molly:  “I think we need another drink.”

Brooke:  “I think you might be right.”

  

 

 

Posted by brooke alexandra at 02:08:53 | Permanent Link | Comments (8) |

May 24, 2007

sometimes smiling hurts my face

Mom:  Long sigh, accompanied with rolled eyes, “What’s wrong?”

Brooke:  “…………………..”

Mom:  “Why are you crying?”

Brooke:  (Insert horrible sobbing, along with snot and tears) “I don’t know.”

Mom:  “What do you mean you don’t know?  Is there something wrong?  Did you have a bad day at school?  Are you hurt?”

Brooke:  Still sobbing, “No…I don’t know.”

Mom:  “Brooke!”

Brooke:  “What?  I don’t know.”

Mom:  “Well, if nothings wrong then dry it up and put a smile on your face.”

Brooke:  “It hurts my face to smile.”

Mom:  Another long sigh, but with hands thrown in the air, “Fine.  Then cry.  I give up.”

Throughout my three years in junior high, this was the daily conversation my mother and I shared when she would get home from work.  I would be thrown across my bed, face down, crying into a pillow.  To talk, I would only slightly turn my head, never making eye contact with her.  She was concerned and she did care, but she was tired.  She was tired with it all, “It” being me. 

I hated junior high.  I hated going.  I hated being there.  I hated myself while I was there.  It wasn’t that I was an outcast, and I wasn’t that girl that everyone made fun of.  I had friends, but I wasn’t popular, that wasn’t the problem.  I didn’t mind that I wasn’t popular.  I felt that I was popular enough.  I had the cool clothes, the cool shoes, good grades, good hair, good complexion, and good friends.  But still, I was miserable and I would come home and cry everyday.  I guess puberty had a lot to do with it.  My hormones were severely off balance.  I believe I had a chronic stomach ache for three years.  I would refuse to go to school the week I was on my period, complaining that I was in too much pain, and my teachers wouldn’t allow me to go to the bathroom during class and I didn’t have time to go between classes.  I would beg my mother every morning to let me stay home.  This ploy only worked about once every two or three months.  On the days she made me go, I would call, usually after lunch and plead with her to come and get me.  This tactic rarely worked either, and when it did, I was not taken home, but taken to her office where I would bounce between examining rooms until the end of the day, when she was finished seeing patients.  How I rationalized this was better than being at school is still a mystery to me.

School overall, sucked.  However, what got me through each day, beginning in eighth grade, was my pre-algebra teacher, Mrs. Zutaut.  Without her, I’m not sure I would have made it through junior high.  She fascinated me and I looked up to her for that reason alone.  She took time to listen and offer advice.  She allowed me to hang out in her room when I didn’t want to go to class.  She was my safe haven, someone I could talk to, someone I could go to, someone who took an interest.  She was my teacher, a teacher who at the time cared.  While shuffling through boxes of my books today, I stumbled upon a book she gave me, along with a poem and a letter.  The poem said:

“No one can determine who I am, but myself.  My parents can not.  My teachers can not.  My friends can not.  They can guide me, but in the final analysis the problem is completely mine.  For I have abilities that are completely unique to me and the challenges of life is for me to discover them, to develop them, to use them.  For then and only then will I know who I am.”

Tears streamed down my face as I read these words.  Still, after all these years I realize I still look to my parents, teachers, friends, and now even boy friends, and jobs to determine who I am.  Even years of maturing and growing, I have not learned to trust in myself.  I’m not sure if that’s a skill I will grasp.  I rely so heavily on what other people think that I’ve lost sight of who I am.  I realize I do this, but still, I continue to do it…Why?

Looking back now, I ask myself, was I a depressed teenager?  Sure.  Was I just going through a phase?  Yeah.  Did I eventually out-grow it?  Sort of.  My mother would say I’ve gotten better, but I still have my moments.  And I would have to agree with her.  I still go through days where I prefer to be alone and be down and depressed.  I feel you can’t be happy everyday, though my mother doesn’t agree.  She says, “Being happy is sometimes a choice, and sometimes you have to choose to be happy.”  I believe that’s true to a degree.  But then I feel that sometimes it’s ok to be sad and unhappy, and not know why.  I still hate it when she say’s, “Put a smile on your face, let me see the pretty girl hiding under that frown.”  And I always respond with, “It hurts my face to smile.”   

 

Posted by brooke alexandra at 20:13:53 | Permanent Link | Comments (4) |

April 20, 2007

cunt you take a joke?

My cousin, Shasta makes me laugh.  She and her sister are two of my favorite people in the whole world.  They are just funny people.  And what makes them so funny, is that most of the time they have no idea that they are being funny.  However, what makes me laugh the most is that Shasta despises words with any sexual connotation, such as: vagina, penis, or cum.  I find this hilarious.  Probably because I find most sexual words used out of context to be slap your leg, bent over in side stitches, pee your pants funny.  So, I feel it is my duty as her favorite cousin to casually slip in one or more of these words into every conversation.  I once sent her an email that opened with something like this:

 Dearest Shasta,
            My Sweet West Vagina is very hot and juicy today, I cunt believe it!  It’s hotter than a witch’s titty here.  You are really going to have to leave your loving Vagina and cum and visit me here in West Vagina.  But make sure you bring protection…it’s going to be HOT!

 We also like to text each other movie quotes and see how long we can continue before one of us screws up the line.  Yesterday, we were in fine form.  The conversation went a little something like this. 

 Brooke:  My vagina misses you.  I mean I miss you.
 Shasta:  Eeeww!  You horse-banging skank!
 Brooke:  Who told you about the horse banging?  There are only two people who know about that…the horse and me.
 Shasta: That’s just wrong.  I’ve missed you.
 Brooke:  I’ve missed you too.
 Shasta: Hey, Mikey?  Gotta go to the bathroom
 Brooke:  Brand, slip her the tongue.
 Shasta:  Get out from behind there.  You’re ruining the painting!
 Brooke:  Well, you’re ruining my joke!
 Shasta:  Dead things, Mikey…dead things.

 Oh how I love my cousin and our sick, and sometimes childish humor.

 

Posted by brooke alexandra at 17:39:40 | Permanent Link | Comments (1) |

March 07, 2007

a hungry homo

Jaymez:  Dear Jesus, I'm so hungry.  Could you please send me some food?  PLEASE!!  Thank you.

Brooke:  I'm sorry, Jesus doesn't feed homos.

Jaymez:  APPARENTLY! We are fucking starving and we have to wait on Donald.

Brooke:  That's just Jesus laughing at you.

Jaymez:  I hope your vagina falls off.

A text message with Jaymez earlier this evening.  I need to visit him, it's been too long.

Posted by brooke alexandra at 22:34:56 | Permanent Link | Comments (4) |

February 26, 2007

sleeping with the friend

“I’m sleeping with you tonight.”

“Is that a statement or a question?”

“A statement.  Jeff just left with lucky hoe number two, leaving me stranded with no car and no place to sleep.”

“Of course, you know you are always welcome.  But you know how I like to sleep, in the middle.  Can you handle that?”

“It’s never bothered me before.”

“Good.  Another shot?”

“Another shot.”


This conversation, with a very close, dear friend took place around 2:00 AM in a bar downtown.  Actually, it was bar number two.  Now, I know the three of us, Friend 1, Friend 2, and I walked from bar one to bar two.  Where at bar two, Friend 2 (Jeff), leaves with a young, attractive, yet easy girl.  Who, Friend 1 and I all night long refer to as, “Hoe number two.”  However, I don’t remember our exact transportation back to bar one, where my car was parked.  We were a good six blocks from bar one.  I just remember being back there, taking more shots of tequila.  I don’t remember what time we left, how much we had to drink, or who drove home.  The last coherent conversation I remember is the one stated above.  I remember friend 1 and I flirting like teenagers all night, like we always do.  Taking shot after shot of tequila, trying to prove to each other who could, hands down drink more (I believe I won, I’m almost positive).  Then, somehow, someway, just like in the movies we were suddenly at my front door with me struggling with my keys.  How we got home is still a mystery to me.  A miracle, I tell you.  The Gods must have been in our favor because not only did we both get home safe, but so did my car.

After focusing and giving myself a little pep talk, I manage to open the door.  Once inside I kick my shoes off, throw my keys in the mail basket, and I lead our drunken butts upstairs.  At this point we are both stumbling over our feet and our words.  He goes straight to the bathroom; I make a b-line for my room.  I don’t bother to turn on the light.  I take off my jacket, my shirt, my jeans, toss them in the floor and I throw on a t-shirt.  I take my hair down and I literally fall into bed.  I lay there for what seems like hours, begging the room to stop spinning.  Bargaining with myself, “I promise never to drink again, just please, PLEASE don’t get sick.”  I’m almost asleep when I hear and feel him slide into bed.  I say good night and roll over.

(Now, I feel I need to remind you that we are friends, good friends.  This is not our first time sharing a bed.  No, this is just one of many.  We know the routine: climb in, say good night and roll over.  That’s us.  That's our friendship.  Yes, we flirt like mad, but that’s it, just flirting and teasing.)

Now, the room has stopped spinning and my body is finally starting to relax and I calm down.  When out of no where he rolls over, pushes up next to me, and slides his hand on to my hip.  I can feel his warm breath against my neck.  In my head I think, “Ok, he’s a snuggler.  I’m not.  But if he wants to cuddle, ok but I’m going to be comfortable.”  So, I back up into him and reposition myself; close, but comfortable.  Finally, we are both situated and I start to fall back asleep.  Then, I feel his strong, soft hand start to head south.  He slowly slides his hand over my hip.  Then, with out any invitation or warning, his hand glides straight over my hip, across my stomach and down my panties.  WHAT?  The only thing my drunken mind can register is, “Wait, what is going on here?  This feels wrong, but REALLY GOOD.  I’m confused.”  I was half in shock, half excited, and half drunk.  I know, I know, I have one-half too many, but that’s how I felt.  Of course, “REALLY GOOD” won out, 10 to 1.  In my self-pleasing mind, pleasure always triumphs.  It had been a long time and it felt good, so I jumped at the opportunity, or rather it jumped at me. 

 I slowly reach down, wrap my hand around his and guide him inside me.  I slowly turn and face him and our eyes meet.  There is so much intensity in his eyes, that I hold our gaze, just starring at him.  He whispers, “Are you sure you want to do this?”  I shake my head, and then ask, “Are YOU sure you want to do this?”  Then with that beautiful big smile, he shakes his head, yes.
Posted by brooke alexandra at 21:10:58 | Permanent Link | Comments (3) |

February 14, 2007

sisterly love

“Sister, would you like to watch a movie with me?”

“Yes, Sister, I would love to.  What film did you have in mind?”

“My Super Ex-Girlfriend.”

“Ah, seriously?"

“It’s funny, you’ll like it.”

“Yeah, but is it Me Funny?”

“Shut up, it’s funny.  Do you want to watch it or not?”

“Yes.  Just let me finish this and I’ll be down.”

……10 minutes later……Screaming from downstairs in the living room, “SISTER, are you coming?”

“YES, GIVE ME A FREAKING MINUTE!”

……5 minutes later…….With both of us sitting on the couch.

 “Ok, you can hit play now.”

…….2 minutes later…….

“Sister, how much would you hate me if I hit pause and went upstairs to put on my pajamas?"

“A whole lot.”

“I can live with that” 
Posted by brooke alexandra at 23:00:25 | Permanent Link | Comments (3) |

January 29, 2007

thelma and louise

Brooke: “I’m grabbing a water for the movie.  Do you want one?”

Mom: “You’re going to sneak it in?”

Brooke: “YES, I’m a rule breaker.  Want to join me?  Live on the dangerous side?”

Mom: “If we’re caught, we’ll get kicked out.”

Brooke: “True, but it will be fun, like an adventure.  We can even have code names…Thelma and Louise, and on the way home we can drive off a cliff.”

Mom: “Ok, but I don’t want water, get me a Diet Coke.”

Brooke: “Whoa, Diet Coke…don’t get too wild on me.”

Later at the movies……………………….

Mom: “Can I please have a large popcorn and a Diet Coke?”

Brooke: “Mom, what are you doing?  You already have something to drink.”

Mom: “I know, but I just can’t do it.”

Brooke: “Are you serious?  It’s a freaking Diet Coke.  You’re not smuggling in a five star cuisine.”

Mom: “I know, I know.  But, I can’t break the rules, it’s against the law.”

Brooke: “Wow, remind me if I ever need someone to help me move a dead body, not to call you.  You disappoint me Mom.”
Posted by brooke alexandra at 19:34:53 | Permanent Link | Comments (7) |

December 30, 2006

you're hateful when you wake up.

“….Can you meet me at nine for coffee?”

“NINE?”

“Yeah, nine.”

“What time is it now?”

“A little after six.”

“Why can’t we go now?”

“Because, I can’t go now.”

“Why can’t you go now?”

“BECAUSE, I JUST CAN’T!”

“STOP YELLING!”

“I’M NOT YELLING.  YOU STOP YELLING!”

“I’M NOT!”

“YES YOU ARE!”

“Did you just wake up?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Have you been asleep ALL DAY?”

“No, not all day, just since…….three.”

“THREE?”

“YES! STOP YELLING!


“I’M NOT!  AND YOU'RE HATEFUL WHEN YOU WAKE UP!"


“YES YOU ARE!  AND YES I AM, BUT YOU KNEW THIS ABOUT ME!"


"True."


"So, I will see you at nine?”

“FINE.”

“FINE.”

“BYE.”

“BYE.”
Posted by brooke alexandra at 19:14:10 | Permanent Link | Comments (0) |
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