In my recent award tour from Minneapolis, MN back to my hometown of Los Angeles, CA, certain events have prevented me from indulging in my addiction to "the new crack" a/k/a my blog(s). My college roommate has been under the weather, and I've been in more hospitals than IVs and more ER's than George Clooney since I left ya'll last.
It was with much apprehension, consternation and hesitation that I left Minnesota prematurely, just as it was really startin to crack for your gal out there. I left behind a bevy of unsolved mysteries, memories-in-progress, untied knots, unraveled loose ends, and a budding romance; not to mention MY producer DJ Kay-A, MY DJ Stage One, and 'nuff unfinished business. As always, it's never personal. Strictly.
However, there's a path here in my life, and I stick to it like sage honey. No one else can follow the bends and twists, the dance of my crazy life that is so not the same old two-step - I break, I bust, I stop, I rock, I wind, grind and flip it to the side - but ya'll can neither stop nor knock my hustle and bustle. Shit, I know Karate, and I know Crazy. So I don't stop the body rock. Who the fuck don't like it? Who the fuck...want...what!
I just obey the street signs when the path winds. And change is in the wind. Five earthquakes since my homecoming?! What.
So I was waiting in the ER for the upteenth time for news on my girl, hardly looking my best nor minding my appearance, when suddenly - my hand opened up my pocketbook, reached in, found some smell-good sauce, applied it to wrists and neck; then slipped out the cocoa butter stick, and slid it on like lipstick. I was just putting it back, when a sultry male voice said "Excuse me, you must be Miranda,"
I looked up and I saw an Angel. 360 waves, deep black, crowning bittersweet-chocolate silky smooth skin and cold almond eyes. We won't discuss the lips here else I'll forget the words that sprung forth from said lips... He's an EMT trainee, who's studying to be a firefighter. In his spare time he races, stunts and tricks on motorcycles. Well, I knew that before he told me, 'cause his muscular chest and arms were clad in a white polo shirt emblazoned with the words "EMT Trainee" and the scars on his elbows and forearms (chocolate, chocolate, chocolate) told the story of the motorcycles. He's 24 years old, no children, no babies' mothers (can I get a Halellujah, Praise the Lord one time). And this is the best part... He repeatedly told me "You look familiar, are you sure we haven't met before?" and told me next time he go racing with his 21-man motorbike crew, I can ride on the back of his motorcycle. This is not a dream, nor a sweet, sweet fantasy, baby. This is sheer, unadulterated, Caron Wheeler-Soul-to-Soul back to life, back to reality, for rilla shit.
So despite all the war wounds, old battle scars, and the ever-aching bulletproof soul; I've pressed the issue, taken the leap of faith, put the barrel to my temple on some renegade rebel Russian roulette shit, and BLAAAO! He slid me ten digits way better than 1,000,000,000.
But I'm older now, wiser, and he's 24, and I was born during the day, not yesterday. SO I chilled. Left him a little message 5 days later. So now he has 20 of my digits, tag, he's it. The ball is in his court, and if it happens to be in our stars, he'll be the first civilian to be with me in many, many years. I'm ready, willing and able to have a meantime relationship, sinful relations, or future "I do" salutations -- or anything in between -- with this man. 'Cause like he said, I'm observant, and game do recognize game, mind detect mind, and an angel is an angel; period, point blank.
I'd only just sent out blessings and asked for an Angel. And there it is there.
P.S. To all you egotistical motherfathers who thought you were the shit, I've not seen an Angel since 10th grade, Venice High School, Darrell Jason Powell, Venice Sho'Line Crip, cuz. I beg your goddamn pardon.