Thoughts Of A Black Girl

Photo by Yuri Catalano on

Saturday August 31, 2019

I am typing up my last thoughts in the notes section of my iphone.

10:43 a.m.: woke up early this morning to go to breakfast with Leeann before plane ride back home. I was hoping that food would sop up liquor and get rid of drunk feeling.

I always find it fascinating how many pages are in a Diner menu. One can actually get meatloaf and a 5 stack of pancakes in one sitting.

I chose an omelet.

But omelet had no cheese. Once I cut into omelet, onions and chorizo went everywhere. How do you eat a deconstructed omelet? Had the idea of using a knife to help scoop ingredients on to fork.

Unfortunately, waitress did not provide a knife, just two forks and a spoon. I decided instead to use one fork to scoop ingredients onto other fork. However, space in between prongs made scooping very difficult.

Breakfast places never seem to salt their eggs.

11:23 a.m.: Now currently on a plane back home and my little black body is not okay. I am not so sure if I will ever be okay again.

Went to a bar last night for my last full day in San Diego. Accidentally drank a 32 oz pitcher of Cadillac Margarita.

Left part of my frontal lobe is throbbing. Creativity is being damaged. I may never be able to write again.

Recap from last night:

Sang more karaoke in the past 5 hours than ever done before in lifetime.

Met a male named Herb.

“Herb?” I asked.

“Yeah Herb.” he said.

“Like an herb?” I said.

“No, herb like Herb.” He said

“Herb like H-E-R-B?” I said.

“Yeah, like an herb.” he said.

Stomach is now contracting as if a baby is being born. But I am not pregnant.

Unless Jesus has impregnated me with a baby, it would be impossible.

Oh my gosh! What if I am having Jesus’s baby! It would be swimming in a small pool of chorizo and sweet and sour mix.

Or maybe it’s Herb’s baby? Maybe I am having a baby Herb.

I think will call him Cilantro.

Unless it is a girl, then I will call her Parsley. Or Cilantra.

If I survive over Denver I’ll call Herb and pray to Jesus that the baby is okay.


How are babies able to swim in one’s stomach but not in the ocean?

11:35 a.m.: plane has still not taken off.

I am starting to imagine life flashes of my highs and lows. Ultimate high was definitely touching Michelle Obama’s arm. Ultimate low is a toss-up between this current moment an-

11:41 a.m.: Plane just took off and now it’s worse. My stomach doesn’t feel like a stomach should feel.

My organ.

I don’t even know if your stomach is an organ.

I am going to die stupid.

I don’t want to be ddrunkk anymore.

Tapeworms don’t even feel this bad. And I’ve never even had a tapeworm.

Next time I will think twice before ordering a margarita pitcher again. The handle was just so incredibly convenient. I didn’t have to worry about condensation dripping on fingers.

Stomach is currently, at this moment, collapsing into its self. 

Space above left eye lid and underneath left brow is pulsating.

Ankles and shins hurt from dropping it like it was hot and picking it back up again. 

If I survive this plane ride, I am spider woman.

I think this may very well be the end of Melissa Etienne. There are still so many things I haven’t been able to do just yet:

A) Find my purpose

B) Get body right and tight

C) Start a cooking YouTube channel

And now my nose is running. Can you die with a stuffy nose?

My forehead is so damn itchy. Why am I so itchy?

If my body does not give out over Tennessee and I am indeed alive tomorrow, I’ll have to seriously reexamine life.

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