BIG HORTICULTURE SCAMMED US ALL by making the monstera genus the defining “it” plant of my generation. She’s pricey for a plant, even when you start small it will still be somewhere in the $20-$30 range. And if you get one that is already the size that you probably want it to be, you can expect to spend upwards of $200. And that’s just getting the plant. Monsteras require a lot of care and upkeep, repotting and whatnot. Yes, the plant makes for stylish, living decor but it also is a glorified weed. Not in the harmful, kills native plants around it sense but more like it literally will not stop growing.

It’s just like me for real.

I’ve been growing the monsteras in these photos since I opened my shop on Telegraph. I knew nothing about monsteras then, I just thought they were pretty lush plants that would look great in the space. Initially, there were three separate monstera plants purchased. I’ve since split two of them (twice!) and they are still growing large leaves. Buying new pots with room for them to grow even larger might bankrupt me at this point. Because they simply just will not stop growing. If I’m being honest, the plants have simply outgrown the space. And I have too.

I hate static pole. Haaaate it. I don’t like being still.

Static pole movement uses the pole as prop that one choreographs around—and I get that—but I just don’t flow the same. I prefer spin pole because it is a constant flow; I’m always spinning, continually moving. Every transition is captivating and unexpected because there was never any pause or break in the movement itself. And it feels really good to move while on spin; it feels really powerful. On static pole, I feel like I look like an idiot—and stuck.

My lack of enthusiasm when it comes to static pole is just a microcosm for my disdain for static areas of my life off the pole. There is nothing I dislike more than being stagnant, static, waiting. And, for me, it is really hard to move around static areas/people in my life healthily. It’s either I allow the stagnancy (is that a real word?) to make me completely miserable or I trauma-block it from my existence altogether. I admire the people who take time to sit within static areas and learn the lessons they are supposed to. I don’t have the patience to do the same. I’m too ambitious and I have too many ideas.

There’s a lot going on.

The year is 2022. I’m navigating entrepreneurship, developing as an artist, supporting my tribe, nurturing new relationships (or at least trying to) and managing to stay alive amidst a pandemic(?).

As an American, I am questioning the continued existence of the global pandemic that began in 2020 since our government has just kind of decided it was over on a random Friday, just in time for summer. As a Black person with good sense, I know not to trust the American government to make any sound decisions for the People—let alone major health decisions. Anyway, I’m doing all of these things and I just turned 36.

Stop lying to me about Tha Carter V.

Beyoncé. This all started with Beyoncé, really. She was the only reason I had needed to watch Superbowl XLVII last February. And by watch, I of course mean mingling with the ladies about anything other than football while the actual game captivated the men in the room adjacent to us until it was time for Beyoncé to take the stage. I wouldn’t even consider myself a super fan — if there was a test to get into the coveted Beyhive, I’m certain I wouldn’t pass–but I just love to watch Beyoncé be Beyoncé.

The Halftime show was everything. Beyoncé wowed us with amazing visuals, impeccable twerks, and a literal surprise, pop up Destiny’s Child reunion. She managed to cram all of that plus nine songs into 14 minutes because Beyoncé is also maybe God. Immediately following the Superbowl performance, while real football fans everywhere were freaking out over the blackout, the Black Women of America quickly held an emergency meeting in which there was 100% attendance. A motion had been made and the vote was unanimous: we were all going to attend Beyoncé’s next concert tour and she hadn’t even formally announced it yet. It was the shortest recorded conversation between black women ever.