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Ouch

Who are you to make me feel this way?
So caught up on all of the things that you say.
With your sweet lies
Deceitful eyes
Playing the fool to catch the wise.
But are you playing?
I’m just saying, because you must be pretty dumb,
To just come,
And mess up everything I had right.
maybe it’s me?
As far as I can see
I didn’t put up enough boundaries.
Didn’t fight with all my might.
How could I?
I didn’t stand a chance
What do you want from me?
Can you be trusted?
My brain and heart are conflicted.
If the heart listened to the brain
There would be love without pain
And if the heart had its way
It would have lots to say,
on all of the reasons not to let you stray.

 

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5 Ways to Steal My Heart

Here are five ways to steal my heart.

1) Challenge me. I like someone who can pick my brain and prove me wrong. A mini pet peeve of mine is when someone lets me win. I am unnecessarily competitive and I think that someone who challenges me is helping me to become better at whatever task is at hand.

2) Understand me. I am an only child. I grew up learning how to entertain myself and I’ve learned to appreciate alone time as a result. I love going out with friends, but sometimes all I want to do is stay in a room by myself and do whatever I want.

3) Feed me. I’m not joking. Give me food, and I’ll love you forever.

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4) Cuddle with me. I wouldn’t say I’m a touchy feely person but I do fancy random hugs. I don’t mean those awkward side hugs; I like the close, warm, I-haven’t-seen-you-in-forever hugs

5) Talk to me. I love deep conversations. We could be talking about the colour of the sky or who invented the television, whatever it is, simple or complex I love thought provoking conversations.

As you can see, I’m really not that hard to woo, I promise.

#KultureShocked

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Use Your Words

I’m finding in my old age (says the 21 year old) that I’m becoming increasingly better at holding conversations. A great conversation skill is being able to state your point, defend it, acknowledge that people have different opinions and respect opposing opinions.

I like a good debate. It keeps me on my toes and provides great mental exercise.
Picture for a moment a game of tennis. It would be a boring if your opponent refused to serve the ball because they didn’t feel like playing. Imagine them purposefully wacking the ball into the net to cut the game short. What if they deliberately hit the ball outside of the lines so you win?

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Annoyed? Well, it’s the same way with a conversation. Stop changing the topic by saying you don’t want to argue. Don’t stop in the middle or agree with the other person just because you want the conversation to end. A disagreement is not an argument. How is your conversation partner supposed to know what you’re thinking if you keep quiet?

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One of the things wrong with the world is that we don’t say what we want to say for the  sake of peace and sanity. What we don’t realise is that when we bottle these things up they slowly eat away at us and that is what we should be avoiding .

I’ll leave you with these words of wisdom, Always say what’s on your mind, and don’t beat around the bush #StopBushAbuse2017.

#KultureShocked

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The Story of the Puss Roll

Today I’ll be returning to my Yaad (Jamaica). I love being in airports but this wasn’t always the case. I felt it was only fitting that I shared the traumatic story of my first time being at the airport. I wrote the story a year ago for my public speaking class. Enjoy!


Crisp white socks; folded neatly at the ankles. Shiny black shoes. A denim dress that flared at the waist with a rounded lapel. My mother completed the look by putting my hair in four evenly parted braids. There wasn’t a crease in sight or a hair out of place. I was ready. I was 1½ years and I was ready for my first trip by airplane.

While my mother and father juggled two suitcases and my diaper bag, my lone responsibility was to guard my stuffed kitten. This was no ordinary kitten. Pink fur, a white under belly and a long white string, courtesy of my grandmother, for a leash. After a 30 minute journey, we arrived at the airport. Mommy kissed daddy goodbye. He then kissed me on both cheeks and gently clunked our foreheads together so I wouldn’t feel left out. It was just mommy, me and my kitty now.

Despite what my mother would say, I was a well behaved baby. I walked beside her in silence taking in the hustle and bustle of the airport. This was probably my first introduction to the concept of “waiting in line”. That’s the thing with airports; lots of opportunities to wait in line. We had to queue to check in our luggage, then we had to queue for the security check.

We waited and waited until it was finally our turn. Mommy lifted her carry on and my diaper bag onto the conveyer belt. While mommy balanced monitoring her bags and conversing with security, some woman snatched my kitty. My jaw dropped as I tried to process what happened. I looked to my mother, waiting for her to defend me but she was busy with the bags. I had to take matters into my own hands.

In one swift motion, I dropped to the ground with a splat. I simultaneously kicked my feet, exposing Huggies underneath so they knew I meant business. I kicked and rolled to the right and I kicked and rolled to the left. They still hadn’t returned my kitty. I added a new move to my tantrum combo. I hollered. I had a pair of lungs and I knew how to use them. The entire airport waited with baited breath for my stuffed animal to be returned.

The conveyer belt had swallowed my kitten and was taking its own sweet time with the digestion process. I was kicking and rolling and screaming at the top of my lungs. My mother was frozen in shock and appreciative of the sympathetic looks she was receiving. The poor attendants ran from my mother to myself then the conveyer belt, unsure of what to do next.

The scanner finally spat out my kitty and the security personnel passed it around like a game of hot potato to get it back to me as quickly as possible. The same woman who had taken my toy returned it and apologized profusely. I stopped my tantrum mid-roll, got up and took it from her. Wearing one shoe, I hopped passed my mother. She scrambled to retrieve my other shoe and any other article of clothing I might have dislodged in my fit.I didn’t know where I was going but I knew it was away from catnappers, stuffed toy eating machines and baffled onlookers. My mother chased behind me and swiftly pulled the back of my dress down to cover my diaper.

Despite what my mother would say, I was a well behaved baby… unless provoked.

#KultureShocked

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Casual Sex

I’m a firm believer that everyone has a right to do whatever they want to with their body. If you want to die a virgin, save yourself for marriage, participate in polygamy that is up to you to decide and no one has any right to tell you to do otherwise.

Personally, I do not think I was made for casual sex. I’m not sure if five years from now my opinion will change. However, I am currently of the belief that there is more to life than just sex. I refuse to think that my purpose in life is to chauffeur one organ around the world after receiving a call at 1 am. Then after an hour long rain dance, I, a mere chaperon will have to clean my ward and take her home where she can rest and rejuvenate until she is summoned once more by some lonely soul at an ungodly hour in the morning .

What I’m trying to say is I need mental, emotional and spiritual stimulation in this life. If physical stimulation is all this life has to offer I might as well just off myself right here right now. I find that whenever I say this, I get looked at like I have three heads. Are my choices the minority? Am I being too naive? Has this always been the case or was I born a decade or two too late?

I’m genuinely curious, what do you think?

#KultureShocked.

 

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Tequila, Condoms and the King Cup

This is the time of my youth and I plan to live it up to the fullest. Everyday, I give thanks to the universe for giving me the greatest friends ever to accompany on this convoluted journey called life. It is with great pain that I tell them ‘goodbye’ at the end of winter and summer breaks but whenever I leave Jamaica, it is always with a heart and mind filled with memories of our stupid adventures. And so our story begins…

Like all good stories, this one begins with way too much alcohol. There were about 11 of us seated in the living room of C’s house. We formed a circle around a circle of cards laid face down with a rather large cup forming the bull’s eye. King Cup was the name of the game and the objective was to get everyone a little more than tipsy. The rules are simple. We go around the circle in a systematic order and each person flips a card. Each card required the group or individuals to complete a task. For instance for seven, you stretch your hands to the heavens and the last one to complete the task has to take a sip of their drink. Why is there a big cup in the center of the circle? Well, everytime a King is flipped, every player has to pour some of their drink into the King Cup. When the last King is flipped, some sad soul has to down the contents of the cup!

Before I continue the story, I must point out some key elements.

  1.  We were in the safety of my friend’s house
  2. We ate lots of pizza before the games began
  3. We are a close knit group despite our large number
  4. We’ve known each other for at least 5 years
  5. We are all of drinking age
  6. We all had to put our phones away so the whole world wouldn’t know our activities #StopDrunkTexting2015
  7. H wasn’t drinking since he had to drive home
  8. Her parents were tucked away in their room should an emergency arise

The point I’m trying to get across is we drink responsibly. Back to the story!

Well, 52 cards later we were all… in a state. Poor D had gotten the King Cup and she drank it like a champion. One thing led to another and N whipped out a condom and threw it at a couple in the corner. Well, I’m sure they were the target but his aim wasn’t the best at the moment. We all laughed and started jamming out to a playlist of Reggae, Dancehall and Soca. It was some point after this that H had to leave so we hugged and said our goodbyes.

The dancing, sweating and drinking water helped us sober up a bit. We talked about life and planned our next outing and somehow the topic of condoms arose. The condom!!! It was like everyone remembered N threw the condom at exactly the same instance but no one could remember where he threw it or where it landed or most importantly where it was at that very moment.

Imagine 10 more-than-tipsy-but-less-than-drunk people searching for one condom in a living room. It was like the bloody thing grew legs and walked away. We concluded that since we couldn’t find the condom… maybe her parents wouldn’t either. Sound reasoning right? Don’t judge we were under the affluence of incahol. We then went to bed knocked out at around 5am.

In the morning – well later in the morning when we woke up- we were sober enough to be reunited with our phones. We had all received a message from H saying:

“I’m home and btw, I have the condom”

Definitely a story for the grandkids….on second thought maybe not.

#KultureShocked

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Tunnel Vision

I come from a very touristy country. Although there are some very grouchy people for the most part people are very friendly and happy. You always feel welcomed. You could be in line behind a random person and strike up a conversation as if they were your best friend. You know how the older folk are always sticklers for manners like, don’t eat with your elbows on the tables. Well in Jamaica, if you want to disrespect an elder then walk into a room without saying Good morning, afternoon, evening or night. This basic greeting has become a part of my existence for fear of the stink eye I would get if I didn’t greet the people in the room when I entered it.

I was in for a rude awakening when I came to school here. I would be seated at the front of my office and people would  walk by me and stomp straight to my boss’ office without even acknowledging my presence. No problem, feel free to ignore the concrete post seated behind the front desk. Three years later and I still can’t shake the feeling that I may be turning into my grandmother who holds firm in her belief that the children of this generation have no manners.

I get the vibe that there is a desire for one to get what needs to be done quickly and painlessly. This means with as little social interaction as possible. It is this particular mentality that has made walking through the tunnels particularly painful. My college has underground tunnels which are heated and make my life so much easier during the winter. There are some murals on the walls but besides those murals and the occasional passerby there really isn’t much anything to look on. My initial response to the occasional passerby was to smile at the individual and mouth or say hi. I quickly learned that this is not acceptable. It is customary to keep your eyes planted to the ground or wall or ceiling; basically anything but the only other human being.

It made me so uncomfortable that I completely avoided the tunnels my first winter. To paint a picture of how drastic it was for me to avoid the tunnels, please think back to “Cool Runnings” the movie of the Jamaican Bobsled team. This movie accurately portrayed my reaction to winter particularly in my first year. No exaggerations. My second year I tried to assimilate, I looked at the walls like everyone else. That didn’t work well either so in this, my third year, I’m being the change I want to see! This semester I’ve smile and waved and said hello to most of the people I see in the tunnels.

Some people reply and I feel pleased and those who don’t I stick my tongue out at them (I refuse to act my age)

#KultureShocked