I didn’t sign up for this shit. Matthew sat on a chair, his head leaning backward, hanging over the edge of his seat. He signed up to kill shifters, not babysit one. Three days had passed since the woman passed out. She was fast asleep on the bed, her chest rose with each deep, even breath. Melanie had taken care of washing and dressing her. He was ordered outside when that all happened like he hadn’t traveled with her when she was stark naked. He shook his head then, trying not to remember it. The room smelled sickeningly like a hospital—pine sol, bleach, and illness. Matthew hated hospitals. He rubbed his arms, feeling restless the more he sat in the room. He stood up and started pacing. When the hell is she going to wake up? He paused at her bed. His eyes darted left, then right, almost expecting someone to barge in. Feeling it safe, he bent his head, taking a lock of the woman’s hair in his hand and breathed in. Lemongrass and …
I’m one of those people who has grown exceedingly tired of black bodies being type-casted in large and minor Hollywood films. I am done with seeing black people (meaning everyone in the African diaspora, not just African-American) in chains, as slaves, as the help, being traumatized, playing the fool for comedic relief, being the token symbol of diversity or being the villain. It was stressing me out. We are not and should not be limited to these films, and so, when Black Panther was announced and the cast was majorly black, I was excited. Not only because it’s one of my favorite comic book series, but because of the representation. Directed by Ryan Coogler and starring Chadwick Boseman, Michael B. Jordan, Lupita Nyong’o, Forest Whitaker, Angela Bassett, Danai Gurira, and Letitia Wright, the film is the first of its kind — a Marvel film led by a black director and a primarily black cast. The cast is primarily African America, African, and Afro-Caribbean. Ie. They’re all black. The movie is about the first superhero of African descent in mainstream American comics, (fact …
It’s another riveting episode of Love and Facebook VI. I was going to change the title of this, but since I got accustomed to “Facebook, Fake Care, and Fake People” I’m keeping it as that. So, yall know how this goes, it’s another day of me not minding my business on Le Book, but I made a boo-boo this time. I commented. Yall, who sent me. But let’s get into the nitty-gritty of this short post.
The cage door screeched as it opened, and Marissa wondered if it was her fear that had heightened the sound. While it struggled to completely open, she dashed across the room. The last thing she wanted was to be trapped against the door when whatever was behind those bars came out. She needed room to run and think. At the end of the exceedingly long corridor, the room split off and dim lights came on. Left and right were her only options. She darted to the left and saw another opening on her right. She skidded into it and paused. The next room was a straight path but there were openings on both sides of the walls. She counted 6 on both sides. God, she hoped she wasn’t in a maze.
Crucian Christmas Festival has come and gone, and although my parade body was still in transit—it got lost in Puerto Rico—I still had the best time ever in the Simply Sophisticated Fun Troupe as they celebrated their 10th Anniversary. Shamari Haynes is a Carnival Connoisseur, A First-Class Festival Feteran, The Maestro of Mas, we can do this all day. What I’m saying is, he went above and beyond for his tenth year, grooming what started out as a little high school troupe, into what is now the territory’s largest, most anticipated festival troupe.
Guess who’s back, back again, Judgey’s back, tell a friend, and subscribe to the blog because that’s only the right thing to do. Last time, in the Supporting Local series (until I find a clever name for it), we talked about Beast Time Fitness. Today, our focus is Apollo Legion. Apollo Legion made its debut last year and has pretty much taken the territory by storm. Created by jack-of-all-trades Charles Goodings Jr., A.K.A Pollo from right out of St. Croix, the clothing line features swimsuits, bodysuits, polo shirts, shorts, children’s apparel…
The quote has absolutely nothing to do with anything, I just wanted to be pseudo-deep for a minute. Moving along, I always wanted to be drawn. Granted, I wanted to lay down on a soft, luxurious couch in a golden room decorated with the finest, classical art of sub-Saharan Africa, while a chocolate, muscular man with abs strong enough for me to wash my laundry on, sits behind an easel, draped in silk and etches me in exaggerated fashion onto a canvas.
I lost weight! Now that yall know that, let’s get into who I’m judging “In the Judgement Room.” Today? We’re talking about the long overused phrases “Support local” or better yet, “Support your own.” I know you’ve heard this once, or twice or probably every damn day as you land on social media. So, the question is what does this really mean?
I know I’m not the only person who can’t look at red baseball caps the same. Every since Pres. 45 campaigned with that damn hat, I give an immediate side-eye to anyone I see with just the color. Online of course, because I never saw anyone with a red hat in real time before…or maybe I never cared before because it was just a damn hat at the time.
I’m taking a cycling class!!! The ending of this year, I committed myself to becoming a much healthier person. I needed to change my eating habits ASAP and become more active. Becoming more active also meant giving up some sleep which is probably the hardest part because I love me some sleep. So. it’s not that I’m losing sleep—because that’s counter-productive—but rather I’m working on staying up more. My sleeping schedule is stupid as hell. I’m the kind of person who would wake up at noon and then go to bed at 4 a.m. I’m not a morning person at all. In fact, I’m inclined to believe people who wake up at 5 a.m. are hellions. Baby Jesus ain’t even up yet, why the hell are you? But I guess I have started joining you underworld folks in order to continue on this “best me” shit.