March Playlist "Bad Girls"

Some of my favorite jams in honor of Women's History Month. Enjoy ;*

http://8tracks.com/lo-lee-tah/bad-girls-do-it

This Week In Photos #1

1. My little cousin and I | 2. Her drawing of me on her computer -_- | 3. Slutwalk with a friend! | 4. Another awesome poster from slutwalk | 4. OOTD on Thursday | 5. Me and a friend on our way to do some shopping | 6. OOTN for downtown | 6. Bus ride downtown | 7. After sweating it at the club, ready for some Five Guys |

My Ezra Miller Obsession

My name is Porsha, and I have an addiction to Ezra Matthew Miller. And I don't think it can be cured.

One day in 2011, I was surfing the interwebz as I am usually wont to do with my free time. I stumbled on the tumblr Attractive Psychos where I saw this gifset:

Immediately I knew I had to find out what movie this was from and who was this delectable-albeit clearly disturbed-boy of my dreams. A quick google search led me to We Need To Talk About Kevin, then of course the actor who played Kevin, none other than Ezra Miller. And from there my obsession took off.

God Bless Tumblr Users

This beautiful collage is now my timeline photo on facebook.

perfect cover photo is perfect

My First Kiss (In Honor of Valentine's Day)

gratuitous picture of JGL because JGL.

            I thought you were beautiful. Your eyes were the same color as a steely sky right after a hurricane (I obviously lived for cliches in middle school) and they made me flustered and hot anytime you looked my way in Civics. We were both new to our middle school and like the other new kids in class we gravitated towards each other, safety in numbers obviously.

            You overheard me talking to one of the other new girls about my diabolical plan to become an international dictator by the age of 25, my comedically ridiculous plan consisting of a well-trained, bionic roach army. You laughed good-naturedly and told me I was funny as you pushed your not blond, but not exactly light brown hair out of your eyes. I swore I loved you then.

            We didn’t talk as much as I would’ve liked after that. Being attractive, you quickly made you friends with girls far more popular than I was, and you started dating one of them. I gave up, moving my pursuits to other boys nowhere near as cute as you. There was that kid in our Civics class who sat near me and flicked tiny, folded notes at me to make me laugh (they weren’t as funny as he intended). That quickly fizzled out.

            Another boy, nearly as cute as you was also in our class (his name will not be mentioned since we’re friends on Facebook and by any chance he reads this I don’t want him to delete me seeing as how else would I be able to see how kind puberty has been to him?). He had a birthmark in the outer corner of one of his eyes, large enough to be noticeable, but small enough to still be distinct, giving his painfully attractive face character. If I loved you, I was obsessed with him-what else is love if not a moderately controlled obsession anyway? He never noticed me and I pinned for him liked I did you. Always the sarcastic girl that made you laugh half-heartedly, never the girlfriend I surmised sadly, already comically jaded at the age of 12.

            It wasn’t until the end of the year-the last period of the last day of school- that you would kiss me. We had been given free reign of the class as our Civics teacher only had to deal with us for 45 minutes until his own freedom began. Like any other 12 and 13 year olds we saw it fit to play truth or dare, codename: make out with your crush before summer break separated you until the next school year.

            You, newly single, were the aims of my intention. I quickly discussed my plans with my friends who were completely on board to make my first kiss happen. The fear of not being a good kisser paled in comparison to my single-minded goal of making you my first kiss. It had to happen, especially before that clock hit 3:40 and my bus showed up to take me home.

            We all scrambled to the back of the class to start playing, assembling ourselves into a sorry excuse for a half-circle near the poster of the U.S. constitution and the presidential election map of 2004. After about 20 minutes, everyone but us had gone. You looked at me out of the corner of your eye and grinned. Did you have your own plan? I wondered.

            Then it was your turn, and without missing a beat you said “Dare”, looking at me as the words escaped from your mouth. My breath caught in my throat.

“I dare you and Porsha to kiss.”

If only I could learn how to bite my lips this sexually at the age of 12.

            I tried hard to conceal my giddiness. Yes! This is really happening, I thought to myself. Are my lips chapped? Do I have food in my teeth? Great now the insecurities and nervousness begin to flood in.

            You had already taken a few suggestive steps toward me. Should I move towards you too? Well, duh, of course I should. How else would we start kissing? Oh my God, Porsha, stop over analyzing everything. And with that you were already there, towering over me, my head only reaching up to your chin. You smelled like boy, sweat and Axe cologne. I inhaled deeply, hoping I didn’t sound like a dying vacuum cleaner. I wanted to savor this moment. You looked down at me, grinning at me sheepishly, the confident swagger gone. I liked this you, seeming almost as shy and vulnerable as I felt in that moment.

     

You grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into you, your face inches, then centimeters from mine until our lips were touching. Mine large and brown, yours small and pink. Our lips were parted slightly enough that I could feel your breath warm and comforting on my lower lip. Finally we broke apart, smiling. My mouth tingled where you had kissed me.

            “You two should go again. I dare you to make out with tongues and everything this time,” my friend Tiara said laughing. Best. Friend. Ever.

            Now with less than ten minutes until the final bell of the year, more of our class joined in to watch. I felt like one of those seedy shows on HBO that I secretly watched after 1 a.m. after my parents had gone to bed. Your reassuring grin made all of that dissipate.

            This time you grabbed my hand pulled me to you. My eyes were already closed and lips puckered in anticipation. This is it. This is it.

            “No hanky panky in my classroom. Not today. Fix those desks and get ready to leave.” Our teacher yelled over to us. “Youngins trying to pull a fast one over on me . Not today.” He grumbled turning away to pack up his own things. For the past 35 minutes the man had been at his computer minding his own damn business, and now he wanted to pay attention? Seriously?

            My disappointment and frustration was mirrored on your face, and I knew whatever moment we had shared was gone. We were back to being just friends. The afternoon announcements started and droned on about being safe that summer and to use it or lose it. All trivial and irrelevant to how I was feeling. Finally, mercifully, the bell rang. You grabbed my hand and walked me out of class and down the ramp, telling me you would call me as soon as you could. At the end of the ramp we said our good-byes. I had to catch my bus and your brother was picking you up in the car lot. You grabbed me into a tight bear hug, lifting my feet off the ground in the process. Laughing you put me down and we parted ways.

            You never did call me that summer. The next school year you had a new girlfriend, and any thoughts of us together left my mind as I met other boys and started dating them too. I still thought of our kiss though, comparing each one after it to ours. Even today I still search for the same spark I felt then, the newness of want and need, heady and all consuming. My first kiss wasn’t a horror story thanks to you, and I’m enternally grateful.

Some of My Favorite Tumblr Valentine's

Legend of Korra for the win!

Good 'ol William Jefferson Clinton.

I sobbed.

Same.

I hope all of you guys had a great Valentine's Day!

Alone on Valentine's Day

you hold your candlelight vigil
with no god to pray to
even your saints are absent

real gods require something more
than food, drink and
tears.


For all you singles out there,

xoxo, Porsha

A Night at the Asylum

Last Sunday I got to see one of my favorite artists perform for the first time ever. Emilie Autumn is an incredibly talented violinist and performer, and seeing her live was such an amazing experience. She and her Bloody Crumpets killed it, and I loved every minute of it.

I really wanted to dress up, so I decided to wear this vintage black dress my Auntie gave me over winter break.

I added some vampy purple lipstick and a leather jacket, and was out the door. I wish I could've taken some pictures of other people's outfits because a lot of people were dressed to the nines. Corsets, fishnet stockting, and top hats were all the rage.

I'll leave you guys with a quick video showing how I got ready, and a little snippet of Emilie performing.

xoxo,

Porsha

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0O0sPIqB5LE

Acting White

This is for every black girl that has ever been told: “you act like a white girl”, each world a knife through the back, skewering you into a box and leaving you there shamed and marginalized. Nobody puts Baby in a corner, but you aren’t Baby and your back is against the wall, kept there by preconceived notions from family members and friends who can’t seem to wrap their heads around the way you act and talk. They tell you that you’re trying to be some you’re not: white.

            Online, this topic has been beaten like a proverbial dead horse, and it’s probably cliché to make this the first posting of my blog, but I want to address this in my own words, from my own insecurities and experiences.

            I think the first time I ever heard somebody say I was acting white I was seven years old. I overheard my mom and stepdad discussing me. He ended their conversation with “somebody will get two for the price one: a black girl on the outside, and a white girl on the inside.” They laughed uproariously. I sat on the living room floor confused and hurt. Whatever asinine cartoon I had been watching lost its appeal. Why would they say I was a “white girl” on the inside? Was there a white girl living in me? That couldn’t be right. Were they making fun of me? I wondered. For the next twelve years I would hear more the same in varying degrees from both whites and blacks alike. I couldn’t escape people’s opinions of me no matter how hard I tried to fit in.

            I felt alienated from the other black girls around me. They teased me and called me ‘oreo’. I was told on more than one occasion that I was ‘too dark to be acting the way I was’, whatever that meant. I would come home angry and hurt, not understanding why people didn’t like me for who I was. What was so wrong with how I talked and dressed?

            With sixth grade came my interest in rock music (thank you Green Day and Fall Out Boy!), something I vehemently hid from my black girl friends. On the bus rides home I rapped the lyrics to Ying Yang Twins’ ‘Whisper Song’ and Usher’s ‘Yeah” like everybody else, but secretly once I got home I ran to the TV to watch TRL and hear ‘Hollaback Girl’ and ‘Sugar We’re Going Down’ (still classics in my book).

            I was caught one day, my love of System of a Down too great to be kept inside once I heard a friend (white) playing Violent Pornography in class. I sang along to the chorus absentmindedly. Another friend (black) said in annoyance, “You would know that white song”. The small feeling of just being wrong was back with a vengeance.

            It wouldn’t be until eighth grade that I would fully embrace my otherness and meet other black girls who jammed out to Panic at the Disco and S.O.A.D.; who thought Pete Wentz was way cuter than Plies, and that Baby Phat looked tacky as hell. I started hanging out with a more diverse group of people, racially, musically, etc. where I felt more comfortable being myself. I only had to deal with negative comments on my bus ride home from girls who referred to me as ‘uppity’. In loud voices they talked about me, their voices filled with vitriol. I sat there quietly, refusing to acknowledge their words and give them power over me. I endured the talks about my hair (“she’s too dark for all that to be hers”, or conversely “she thinks she’s better than us cause she got long hair, she ain’t shit”), and my skin color. I reverted back to the seven-year-old girl who was confused about what was wrong with her. They make fun of me for being dark, and then make fun of me for acting white. Who do they want me to be? By age 13 I knew I couldn’t win, so I said fuck it and did what made me happy.

            That’s my advice to anyone reading this. Do what makes you happy. You have to live for you, not everybody else. Life’s too short to be something you’re not. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, why should it matter how you dress or talk, or especially what music you listen to? I wish I could go back to the petrified 11 year old girl who was ashamed of who she was and tell her to shout her love of anime and alternative music to the mountain tops. You have nothing to be ashamed of.