I'm also free to move forward since I'm now out of this hellish holding pattern my life has been spinning inside of for the past nine months.

I don't trust white critics' judgment about most things that deal with black life, particularly when a black person is the creator.

For five years I didn't think it was possible to be this happy.
But then he forgot all those promises he made. He forgot why he loved me. He simply stopped loving me.

And this is how he did it:
He stopped talking to me unless I spoke to him.
He stopped holding my hand.
He stopped kissing me good night.
He stopped kissing me good morning.
He stopped kissing me.
He stopped smiling at me.
He stopped laughing.
He stopped bathing and showering with me.
He stopped wanting me.
He started swearing at me.
He started lying to me.
He started cheating on me.
He hurt me.
And then he told me he was in love with another woman and wanted a divorce.
Oh, I forgot. He said he was sorry.

I wanted to blow his fucking brains out.

There is a price for popularity. Critics look for your weaknesses, your flaws, anything that makes the work seem like a fluke and not seem worthy of all the attention it's getting.

I thought you said you were trying to quit swearing!
Go to hell, Paulette. I will. As soon as I can have a whole week where no crazy or ridiculous or unbelievable shi*t happens an my mind is calm long enough to remember how to think.

يتعلق الكثيرون منا بما ليس في أيديهم ، وما لا يمكن أن يكون في أيديهم . فينضيع الكثير من طاقتنا في الحزن ، بينما يمكننا استغلال هذه الطاقة – أو أقل منها – في عمل ، أو – على الأقل – في محاولة القيام ببعض مما نود فعلا القيام به .