Ass Dimples

I have long wondered how in the hell God saw fit to keep my life away from a healthy relationship. I have been angry at, towards and about God. I have all but cursed God, but I’d never do that, so I haven’t. I have been hurt and if I’m not mistaken, I have cried…


I have cried at the thought.
I have cried at the television. I have cried in my room, cried during church, I have cried while strolling through the mean streets of facebook. I have cried at weddings. I have cried driving.
I have cried while listening to music. I have cried while getting dressed. I have been in the midst of doing my make up for the day (meaning eyeliner and filing in my brows), and had to start over due to tears that began forming and flowing, turning my face canvas into an ice skating rink for eyeliner. I have cried and hurt….about love.
About not having it. Not getting it. Not having a fair shake or a fair shot at it. I remember hearing a poet say if a woman has never been engaged by age 35, there is something wrong with her. I may have mentioned that in this blog before because under that rule of thumb, something IS wrong with me.
But I don’t live by that, so that doesn’t matter.

But I have cried about it. About not having been anything great enough to be engaged to. Not being beautiful enough. I have struggled with body issues that you can’t imagine. Too fat, too skinny, just right , just body.
I often feel like JUST a BODY.

That’s it. Like fuck yo’ poems bitch, bend over and let me see that booty. Like that’s what every man that doesn’t call himself my brother thinks. I hope none of my brothers secretly don’t secretly partake and I admit to wondering sometimes have they ever thought extensively about my ass? It doesn’t matter because if we call each other bro & sis, they would never say anything right? Let’s hope so. Let this be a warning. Lololol……

A friend recently told me she didn’t want my experiences with other people to affect the way I saw and dressed myself. She noted how I have stopped wearing the long baggy sweaters and jeans in attempts to hide what never actually gets hidden. Gone are the old tennis shoes and the weave ponytails. You have no idea the measures and levels I’ve gone to in effort to prevent my ass from getting the attention over me. Even still today, there are things I would never wear (some of which I own), based solely off of the response I know it will get me. * shrug *

But I have become more free in this aspect than other years. I rock heels, dresses, skirts and cute shirts. I love fashion and I love getting dressed. I love that the size I am. It took work and continues to take work to be here. But I am often a prisoner of this body. I feel like all I am is a big ass. Like the cutie who I almost slept with wouldn’t want me based on my face, my poems or my attitude in general. He sees something that looks like it would probably feel good. Like the poets who I have been so eager and excited to meet and fellowship with and talk all things poetry with who see me and say things to me like “ I was thinking of you when I was doing my erotic poem”. …. .hmm… that’s interesting since you don’t know. <<

I am a prisoner to my ass at the gas station, I am a prisoner to my ass around my stepfather’s friends (I always would see their reactions to me as I grew older and more into a woman), I am prisoner to my ass everywhere I go. Why do I say this? Because it’s ALL they ever see. It’s all they talk to. I’ve written and performed a poem about it before and have probably discussed this in this blog. My ass is beautiful. Very few dimples and yes, she manages to still have some type of sit-up capabilities. It’s probably all those squats I did when I was courting a nigga that should have been courting me. She’s a nice color and looks awesome in boyshorts. Gone are the hand prints from the days of me stripping and niggas smacking it so hard that I would tip over in my heels. It’s smooth. Shelly, is smooth…Shelly is the name I’ve been calling my ass since early 2000s. I love my ass. People are out here buying and dying for asses….i have an ass. And I think it’s a nice ass and sometimes, I bounce it in the mirror to see if it will still pop the way it did when I was in my 20s.

It does.
For the most part.
But my ass is just an ass and doesn’t and has never defined me. After it stops bouncing, the bills are still due, the dogs are still wanting to go potty and I still have a blog to write, a poem to rehearse and somewhere to be at 7pm. After my ass is uncovered in all her ass glory, I still have to wake up and go to work, I still have to practice repeatedly to learn it, I still will not be in love and I still will not be loved back. It’s just an ass. It serves few purposes. It is behind me, so that alone lets you know it has no bearing on my future, yet it has dick-tated almost every man I have met. And for this, I have cried. I have cried because I can’t and won’t have children, but I really don’t want one beyond the age of 3, so it works in the grand scheme of things. I have cried because I don’t get attention. I have cried because the attention I get is all wrong. I have cried because I wanted to be dated, I wanted someone to surprise me with things they know I would love,
I’ve wanted someone who WANTED to see me smile so badly, that they made it happen.

And I don’t have that. And haven’t had it. And I’ve cried because of that MANY times.

I don’t pray for a man. I have never been that person. I just think of all the things I could and should be praying for, a man is not one of them. Not that there is anything wrong with it, it’s just not my cup of prayer-tea. I have prayed to be open, to be optimistic, to be ready….but never FOR a man to touch down. I don’t see that changing.

But I have cried about it to God.
I go home to the silence of my house and love it more often than not. But there are days, like the two that recently passed by, that I want someone to text me. To be excited to talk to me and it not be just like everybody else. That I know I am different and special and on another playing field than EVERYONE else.
I want to FEEL.
I haven’t felt.
I want to LOVE.
I’ve only loved projections.
I want affection.
I’ve only given it.
I want to giggle and be tickled and laugh and write love poems again and have heart eyes and all that stuff…….

But you know what…..
One year later,
I don’t believe any of that is for me. I’ve toggled w/the idea that I’m not meant for companionship and sometimes it’s hard for me to believe and accept, but most times…I would say about 90% of the time, I just don’t believe it. I don’t believe that wedding will come. Or that honeymoon. Or those feelings. Or that happiness. I can see myself standing on a cliff nearest water crashes, but I see it alone. Not w/my husband and a pastor and a witness or two. I feel like it’s just me. People are always hollering “keep the faith’’ or ‘someone is out there’, as if they KNOW this information. There may not be someone out there for me. And that statement seems so unfair.

And that hurts. It will hurt forever. It will always hurt me, to the earthly core of my body that i feel this way.

I will always feel a way about all that I am being for no one else.
I see the way men look at me and these days, if they are not giving me the salacious, salivating look, then they are looking at me so neutral that I could drive through a carwash with it.

I wonder sometimes if the man looking at me, whoever ‘he’ is at the moment, thinks I’m beautiful.

I still wonder these things. I still wonder will anyone ever see my light, and it still hurts that no one ever has and that I feel like no one ever will. I still continue to live my life tho. It’s still abundantly beautiful. I am confident in who I am and who I am becoming. I am proud of all I have survived and lived through. I know that if anyone were to ever catch me for real,
It would be the best catch of their lifetime.

I know, for a fact, that even in all my flaws, I am a beautifully created good woman. A Very Good woman. I have raised kids that weren’t mine, I’ve hidden guns, kept dope, hell put my fucking fingerprints on guns, I have been ready to fight, to tear up and to go to war for my man. Things I would NEVER do again for someone because someone who loves me would never place me in said positions. I have written him to life in poems. I have sung him to sleep when he was sick. I have pushed his back until he stood back up and I have been at his side for every single thing that ever happens, good, bad and indifferent. I have taught myself how to be a top chef and I am sexually uninhibited. I am smart and I love who I love with all the love I have. I don’t desire to punish anyone for what others have done. I only seek to spend days patrolling the growing towers of love between two people….

I know I have growing to do. I know I fucked up #MuseWeasel because I emasculated him. I wanted to ‘save’ him like the Captain of an E40 16, and you can’t do that with a man. I didn’t play the woman role only, I played BOTH of us. Lesson learned. You don’t teach a man how to treat you by treating him that way. I thought so. That’s not true. And he won’t learn it.

It saddens me sometimes, still, that I spend all this good alone. That after all these lessons that I feel excited to act upon, I get nothing but a dry spell and a waning desire to masturbate. Oh how life is changing.

One year ago,
I released the first blog of this series. I was hurting. I was mortified by my hurt. By the fact that a man would come into my life and have every possibly opportunity NOT to hurt me and then go on to do just that. So I decided to channel that pain and hope to heal through this blog where I would not only talk about him, but I would talk about them all. I have gone through ups and downs, ins and outs of my dating life here. It’s been funny at times and often sad.

It has all had the purpose of healing me once and for all. To sweep up and out what the Only the Brave show didn’t get rid of. It has done just that in so many ways. I have watched it grow, I have watched the readers leave comments to my heart’s delight and the number counts go up. This blog has allowed me the opportunity to purge feelings that would otherwise still be within me. Each one was written as spontaneously as they appeared. Each one gave me life in some way or another.

And now here I am one year later.

I don’t cry as much anymore, but I still do from time to time. I don’t really want a relationship right now at all to be honest.
But I ABHOR the feelings of not being WANTED or DESIRED. …for my mind.
I know I rock. I do.

I promise you that much. I know that any man should be proud to be chosen by me. Through this blog I have learned lots about the prey and the hunter shit. They say men are the choosers, but we women have a responsibility in choosing as well. Folks act like we just sit back and look pretty until someone deems us great enough to go with his flow, but the truth is, everybody is choosing.
The ones I have chosen to allow to entertain me have been duds. Fools Gold as I like to call it.

I have hit duds with my choosey finger. And each time I got away with marks and bruises but still alive. But the last time, it blew up.


I barely escaped with mental life. It collapsed me. The hurt itself collapsed me. This blog is literally me rising, inch by inch by inch with each posting. Today, I stand straight up. I do get those feelings of wanting to be wanted and every now and again (def not like it used to be), I cry. But for the most part, I stand up straight in high heels and I smoke a black and mild while looking out my windows. I’m happy. I am. I have an internal joy that combats and beats out the tears that want to flow due to me being all by myself. I have managed to regain control of the emotions that had scattered all over the place and were ready for war. I don’t troll twitter or Instagram and look for signs that the last person who hurt me is now hurting. I stopped doing that but it took a long time. I waited so impatiently to be properly front row seated to watch his misery. Misery indeed DOES love company. I tried to get him to be mine. I don’t dream about him anymore, nor do I see his name daily, EVERYWHERE, anymore. Sheeeeeeeeeeesh, I made it yaw. If I haven’t done anything else with this time or this blog, I healed from that non-relationship.

I don’t feel him or smell him or even think about him without being ‘triggered’.
I don’t want to tear my ears off from hearing Justin Timberlake anymore, but I know I will never get Stankonia back again. I have reclaimed my right to hear love music and love it for music and not cry about my life that lacks love.

I have healed from #MuseWeasel.

But I am still working on healing from all of them as a whole. The damage is done. It’s repairable tho. And I’m still working, daily, constantly, battling sometimes and breezing by other times, to not be irreparably broken by niggashit.

I can listen to John Legend’s “I love, you Love’ and not feel like my life is falling apart, lololol. I’m still coming back, but I am back from a dark place. There’s work left, so the blog continues and the road to my first best seller continues right here. I thank you for taking this journey with me. I think I said that earlier. Now you should know it’s real 😉
I’m leaving in 16 days to go somewhere far away. I’m so scared and nervous, as I always get trip anxiety but I’m flying solo & quite far (for me), so I’m nervous. But I have been combating the nervousness with the beauty of the nude beach I plan to park my naked ass on…….

You know why?
It’s not just because I can. After all, that typing I did about feeling like I am nothing but an ass, there has to be some type of real reason why I’d want to go to a nude beach and actually get nude right?
Well…yeah. There is.

It’s mostly because I want to,
but partly because in reclaiming my emotions and myself, I have to also reclaim my body. I can’t be a ‘prisoner’ in this body, as i have to live with it. When I did the Vagina Monologues show last weekend, one of my poems that I probably performed the best and was most connected to was entitled “My Vagina Is My Village”. ….this poem is a woman on two sides of her personality: The one happy, excited, fresh, free, fun, i -love-being-woman vagina poem, and the other being the broken, deadened, hurt for life, raped, pillaged, abused vagina. These contrasts blended together to make a monologue, albeit a difficult one, that had to be interpreted by yours truly. I’ve never been raped (by rape’s actual definition). I’ve never been stuffed with shotguns or broom sticks and have never been gang-bodied by soldiers who left me dirty, stinking and full of them. But i have been pillaged, prodded, probed, i have been violated and the most scary part about reading this poem, I have been and still am, today, the flip side of her personality. The broken spirit. The one who “does not touch there”. The one who “lives somewhere else” and “doesn’t know where that is” …..that IS me just as Rose from For Colored Girls is me, just as all the characters I keep getting blessed to play are me. In some way, they are always me. And they always teach me about me because they show me myself from a perspective that the writer never witnessed in ME, but wrote about me. I will not be disconnected from myself or from my body.

I am one unit. One beautiful unit that deserves to be able to withstand herself, flaws, glory and all. Dimples, punctures, wounds, breaks, tears, mishaps, beautifuls, lovelies and all. ALL of me deserves ALL of me to be loved by ALL of me.

Whoooooa chile, what a journey. It won’t expire before I do (the journey).

I will, in the future postings (this one not really included), edit !!!! I will definitely start editing, which is something I have not done in the past. Misspellings and misplaced words and sentences that flow well or are incomplete have been apart of this blog so as to show the raw emotion behind my blogging. Now, I will change that. I will edit and clean the blogs up moving forwards. Hey, this is a book. So it has to be clean. But that’s it. Spell checking and sentence checking…..content is exactly what the content is. This is not your Christian Singles network blog. But God doesn’t love me no less. I don’t love God any less either. And I’m not mad at God. I hurt to God and hope that S(H)e hears my cry like a roll of thunder.
I don’t know if I will EVER share my life with someone.

Like I said, I don’t necessarily believe I will. But I don’t count it out.
I just don’t count it. All the shit dudes say sounds a lot like blah blah blah blech.

I count the mile marker signs instead of the He Loves Me petals.
There’s a lot of living left to do.


And I’m still here.
Able to do it……
Able to live.
I would love to share my life with someone later in the future and for now, I would love to just meet a great person that I enjoy dating. But I won’t be doing it anymore. Not until I meet the man that can bring my dimple back out.

And not the ones on my ass,
the single one on my face.

He who makes that appear may have just found his Queen.

These Hills Are Too Damn Big: Lessons from the Runway

Runway #9 (I think) – Runway modeling is freaking fun and glam !!! I would never have thought I’d be able to model sometimes. ….but the best part of my experience with participating in hair and fashion shows are the lessons that inadvertently place themselves in the line of my eye fire. How dare I learn something about LIFE/LIVING from modeling ?? I am so thankful that I have been blessed with modeling opportunities.

Sometimes, they reiterate old lessons and sometimes, they usher in new ones dressed in gowns with a popping lip 😉

Yesterday’s fashion show was no different and it was at high school, which meant we modeled on school floors, which is equal to no carpet!!! Nothing but shine and reflections !!!!

I made the mistake of only grabbing one extra pair of shoes on my way out that morning: A pair of black lace booties, along with the shoes they requested I bring, which were a pair of butterfly pumps that I just bought about a month ago. These just happened to be the pair of heels I had in the car when I went for the fitting. They loved them and paired them with a cute dress and it made all the sense to everyone for me to wear those….it made sense to myself. I knew then that me wearing these shoes may or may not be a problem, but I thought I could do it. I take chances on myself. The reason these shoes were even in the car was because I had taken them to work with the intent of getting my feet acclimated to them. They are a half size too big but not because I don’t know what size I wear. They run big and I don’t remember reading that about the shoes, but seeing as tho they were online purchases, it’s always a chance being taken. I got them and realized the half a size is the difference between shoes flopping and me walking flawlessly in them. But they are pumps….I just thought I could make it work with them because they are pumps with no platform and a low arch. SO I never returned them for a smaller size. Also , I think I was concerned that I would get the smaller size and not be able to fit them at all, then I would end up w/o these cute shoes. I basically have the same result tho from keeping them. More on that later…..

Back to yesterday morning… I should have grabbed some other pumps but I was still sleep….i was out late and up until 2am fooling w/my hair, so I was still sleeping at my 7 AM rising…..eyes open, but I was sleep.
Fast forward to the show. We arrived at the school and still thought ‘i can do it’ while casually listening to my instinct question my life choices ….
then we rehearsed ….to my surprise they put me first.
I’ve never walked first. I’ve lead my segment before ONCE and that was a choreographed segment, but I have never walked first out or last out. That is a lot of pressure. Every position in a runway show is a pressure filled spot because all eyes are most definitely on you, so there is no time for insecurities. But to be the person who starts it off or ends it, you have a hint of extra weight on top of you because you are either showing the audience how yaw are about to bring it or how you go out with a bang. With that being said, when she pulled me to start first, the first thing I thought was ‘oh no, but these shoes”. … Sheeesh, but I pumped myself up and said internally ‘you got this’. …I also may have chuckled a bit at God’s sense of humor…..I’m SURE God was sipping tea when I started walking…
..So I walked in them. Horrific.

Even the ladies of the boutique saw it and as I walked and struggled to keep these shoes from flopping off my feet, someone said ‘come on januarie, you can do better than that’ …I realized quick that whether or not I choose to claim myself as a model, I HAVE modeled before and people expect XYZ out of me. Just like in poetry: Folks expect me to come out with a long poem, perhaps about love or black people or maybe even a story. But they expect what I have given them in the past. At this quick rehearsal, I was not giving what I had given in the past.

I was giving something new: I call it, ‘I can’t walk in these’. Lol, I gave them the I Can’t Walk iN These Heels’ treatment…..I struggled to get down to the end of the runway and every time I got to stop, I was able to regain control of my feet in these shoes. It didn’t help past four steps.
I thought to myself ‘what you gonna do goofy?’

Have you ever try walking with your back straight, eyes focused, face on fierce, showcasing an outfit, on a slick floor w/fall potential in shoes that are too big?

When we got back to our area, the ladies had me try on a second dress to walk in. I initially tried to play it off with my black booties, but I knew the pumps would look better with the style of dress. It was requested that I wear the butterflies. Now, I had to walk twice, three times if you count the final all-model walk. From the rehearsal to the start of the show, which was at least over an hour, I contemplated what to do….I was excited because I was walking twice. But I was stressed because I was thinking ‘ there is no way I can do TWO shitty ass walks…I ain’t come out of town to look like I need OFF the runway fast” ….
What to do….do I suggest I wear the other shoes?
Play it off with these shoes?
Stuff them and practice now?
Do I ‘forfeit’ and say I can’t do it? Will I be a disappointment?
Will I let myself down? What if I walk in them and fall?
What if I walk and they fall off my feet?
How will I play THAT off?
How will I be invited to walk again?

Oh, the wonder-filled mind of januarie and all her selfie-questions. I’m usually the quietest person in the room no matter the circumstance, but please believe in my head, I have a whole lot of thinking going on, about SOMETHING.

Finally, it was nearing showtime. We went backstage and I had both of my shoes there. We had about 15 mins before our turn when I had the bright idea to put toilet paper or napkins in my shoes. Sure it was a less than ideal situation and I would likely not ever do that in real life, but for the sake of the runway, surely I can handle some TP in my shoes if it means my shoes will stay on the back of my feet. I tried it. Matter a fact, I tried several versions of this shoe stuffing. I stuffed the tips, the sides, the tips AND the sides. I balled up the napkin, I folded the napkin. I put my feet in first, I put them in last, I put them in after the paper then put more paper on top of my foot. I tried so many fucking versions of self-help and after each time that I felt mildly secure in, I would go practice on the surface. After a few tries, it helped. At one point, I thought it a good idea to leave them on but then my feet started hurting and I figured that would do the walk a different type of injustice. So I took them off and right when it was our turn to line up, I put them on.

But not before my instinct had her day in court. I sat on the floor envisioning myself making a fool out of myself for three excruciating walks down the runway. I sat Indian style and silently asked myself: which one of these would make you look like the bigger fool? Suggesting that you wear the butterflies only once or walking in them both times. I knew the booties did not go with both dresses. They just didn’t and personally, I couldn’t let myself NOT try to make it once. If I made it and made it well, then I could keep them on for the second walk. I sat there as time was winding down and our turn neared and then I just said it.

I looked at the ladies and moved in closer and said ‘I don’t think I can wear these shoes both times, they are too big”…..I briefly explained that they were new and too big and I would be willing to try if that’s what they really wanted but that I just didn’t want to look like fashion roadkill……just that simple. And like that, it was over. I would go out in the butterflies, and when I came back to change, I’d wear the booties. I still thought I could do these butterflies once. I had practiced with the tissue enough to build a lil bit of confidence.

And then it was our turn.

I made sure my heels were tight as I could get them, with my feet secure in their place thanks to the tissue. And I was first, and just like that, it was my immediate turn:

The music started and strut (as best as possible and slow) out to the runway, turned, stopped and got ready to go hard. I went ……and that is exactly what it was: HARD!!!! By the time I arrived at the middle of the floor for the first stop and pose, I felt like snatching those shoes off my feet and walking w/a bounce and a smile. People were videoing and taking pictures and I could hear my instinct saying ‘nah, you will NOT get me bad’….but anyone who was videoing probably did get me bad….I got to the end and it felt like I was out of breath….I turned and walked back down and was so thankful the next girl was coming out to take the attention off of myself. SHIT!!!!! FUCK!!!! DAMMIT JANUARIE!!!! <<<internal voice…..

Instead of posing at the end, I admit I diagonally walked to the back in a take off method: meaning, you would have thought I was about to run. I wanted OUT of those shoes. I wanted OUT of that hard situation that lowered my model-confidence and I felt like prevented me from wearing the shit out of such a cute dress !!! I was so concentrated on those shoes not falling, which was truly fucking with my walk quite a bit…I felt crooked and timid and was distracted that I didn’t even put my hands in the pockets the way I intended on.

Got to the back and was out of those shoes before I was out the public eye. I love those shoes. They are so freaking cute and full of colorful butterflies against a white background w/solid blue stiletto heels. It saddens me that they were my problem.

But I threw those booties on quickly. I felt like I was putting myself back on solid ground. I put them on while I was being zipped into my second dress. Yes, this is comfort. I wasn’t even bending down.

Got back to the lineup and then back to my turn and my second stroll. I strut with all I could. I felt better. I felt my confidence come back. I felt like turning around and saying “yes bitches, I CAN walk, don’t get it twisted’….lololol

I didn’t.
I got to the end with ease, walked back past the people with good feelings and hopped in the line for the final walk and did that with confidence all over again. It worked.

The point:
“these hills are too damn big”

Sometimes, the hill looks like it cannot be scaled. Like there is no way to get up or around it. Sometimes, it’s as simple as us defeating ourselves before we arrive at the competition. Either we train our brains to dream in negatives or we put ourselves in the line of fire and then expect to be able to compete with it. I put myself in the line of fire by not mentioning on DAY ONE that those heels might be a problem for me to walk a runway in. Had I said so, then they would have never been in my possession that day, never would have been a problem and I could have had three flawless walks back to back. Had I gotten some rest (sometimes, you just gotta live a lil tho), or woke myself up out of lazy-decision making mode, I could have brought with me better choices to walk in. I have 100 pairs of shoes. This was unacceptable. Oh vey, all the preventable problems we allow INTO our lives -_-

Finally and most importantly….COURAGE.

Courage is the difference between standing back, looking at the hill
Standing back, looking from the hill.

Courage means standing up to face the problem head on and not being afraid to confront it. Not being afraid to make a suggestion at how to get over it. Not being so over-confident that you fool yourself into believing you can do things that you can’t do. And let’s face it and be honest: There ARE some things that we can’t do, no matter what the reason why. That’s life. We can approach a lot of stuff w/a superhuman mentality, but that won’t work if the situation is impossible. Hills are tricky. Some are huge, some are small.

Some are tall while others are not up that high, but the arch is a killer. Some hills are steep with a slippery surface, others you aren’t afraid to put your foot on the ground and know you have a solid platform. Some are up on platforms that are ridiculous. Other’s need the platform in order to be a hill….some will hurt, some won’t, some will leave bruises and other’s will require a lot of concentration to make it beyond.

Not all hills are created equal.

And not every one can be scaled. …however, it IS ok to try. It’s ok to be confident in yourself and say ‘I can do this’…..that’s the only way you will learn when you can’t ! And when you can’t, there is NOTHING wrong with stepping back and altering the situation, if possible, to fit your needs…..mountaineers don’t climb Everest without the necessary equipment and spending weeks and months prepping for the high altitudes.

Not all hills need months of preparation, but every heel needs some practice.
Practice doesn’t really make perfect either, contrary to what you may have heard.
Practice simply creates a blueprint of confidence. Practice makes you able. Practice tests and shows you just how ready you are.


Yesterday, I practiced using my voice outside of poetry. I confronted every possibility I could think of happening if I walked in those heels….and I thought of what the solution or prevention could be. Once I decided that I knew the best possible answer, I spoke up and saved myself and the boutique and the other models the embarrassment of me being so prideful that I walked in shoes that made me look like I didn’t know why I was there. I did, however, give my best in the butterfly pumps, all while gaining a new life lesson:
Never be afraid to look a hill in the eye and make a safety request on behalf of the people, yourself included,

And then,

Get to climbing. <3