I wrote a post yesterday explaining how I had a lack of motivation and what I was going to do to fix that. I wrote that post while I was at work. Upon leaving, I grabbed my documents from the printer and headed to my car. Once I made it to my beauty, I put the key in the ignition, turned it… and nothing happened. Surprisingly, I didn’t even freak out like I did in previous instances. That’s mainly because I’m used to the mishaps with my vehicle.

Last week, I spent a lot of money in regards to much needed TLC my car needed. From window regulators, brakes, rotors, oil changes, and the like, I treated her to all of that. It was time that I show her some appreciation. She has gotten me through a lot even though she couldn’t get me through a lot. So besides the fact that after I got all of this maintenance done and a week later I need a new compressor, I also need a starter. Grand Total: $911. 58 (auto-mechanic)

This could have happened any other weekend, but NOT the weekend I actually decide to make plans to be social. It’s Homecoming week at Southern University and I made plans to attend the Greek Show and by now it’s apparent I won’t be there. I still have money left over after catching up on a few things but more car repairs is not how I wanted to disburse my surplus of benjamins.

Of course I be learning more about Summa Theologica or finishing my Mother to Son poem research paper, or perhaps sprucing up my Swahili, answering my English questions and working on my presentation for Management of Business; but, I needed the friggin break. I’ve had my nose buried in books for the first two months and I needed to just step away from that for a little bit. The money is present to get all of this fixed but I’d be a fool to pay that much when it can be done cheaper if I wait. Waiting will mean missing the festivities for this weekend.

If I miss the Greek Show, I will make it to the tailgating festivities!

I wrote a post yesterday about my animosity that I have towards my son’s relationship with his father. After rereading and proofreading that post, I realized that I have no other choice but to accept it. I have to accept that whenever DeadBeatty McSmeety decides for 2 hours that he wants to play daddy, it is what it is. It’s definitely a hard pill to swallow, especially when my son seems to disregard my presence when DeadBob BeatPants decides to invade our lives.

I know I may be looking into this a little bit deeply but can you blame me? I’m changing the diapers, buying clothes, preparing meals, planning trips, playing in the park, wrestling, playing “catch”, and kissing “owies”. I’m the one who possesses this magical power to oblierate tears with a single kiss. It’s hard to accept the fact that some person who uses the term father so loosely, can come around when he wants, and for that little time, he can do all that I do effortlessly.

As a result of my jealously for what seems to be so natural to someone who can careless, there exists an abhorrence and repulsion for him. Subsidence and remission are not in the vicinity. Respect for such a being has been evicted and all that remains is an immense vacancy for someone deserving, like me. Eventually, I’ll put my armor down and speculate the election to simmer. I’m realizing that the energy that I spend resenting him will ultimately be the result of my demise. Thus, when this animosity causes insanity, when I’m filled to the brim with rage and disgust, and when I’m driven to totally displace myself from what is considered my own normalcy, what will he be doing? Living.

I plan on living. I deserve to live and to be free. From now on, this energy will be used to improve my quality of living, my happiness, and my total freedom. I know I’ll never truly and whole-heartedly accept this bond. I can’t accept it because the fact will always remain that he is not of appropriate value to obtain such. And to retain it is nothing short of blasphemy! It’s insulting because I’ve never denied my child. I never opted out in regards to my name being printed on his birth certificate. I never missed a program at his school. I never complained about “playing daddy” when De-De didn’t want to be “De-De.” Yet he can do such and expect to be revered. Never will I respect him. I can’t. But I can’t deny the obvious joyous association. I won’t say that I hate this affliation, so in the meantime, I’ll just say that I hate that I love it.

I love oxymorons.