On Sunday nights life feels like a death drop towards disaster.
You’re angry at the changing of seasons, at the bus that was 20 mins late, the person who doesn’t text back after a great date, the men who slide oily eyes over you when you walk home on the late side, wondering how effective your house keys are between your fingers.
You think you’re missing out on love but what you really want is the taste of transgression coating your tongue.
The feelings that allow you to spin out, just a little bit.
Just enough to rinse yourself of the prosaic and the mundane.
You’re in search of the electric, the unrestrained.
A good story that makes you feel like you failed your god.
You don’t know where you’re going, only that the road is long.
Diary of a mad brown girl 