Sugar Milk

A NSFW Blog:

Writer. Researcher. Observer. Aspiring minimalist. Photographer. Music collector. Social Drinker. Sex enthusiast. Urban. Queer. Accepting. Public Transportation.
Spring and Autumn Memoir

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.

—Kait Rokowski, A Good Day (via jesusfuckmechrist)

(Source: justsingyourlifeaway, via etceterauniverse)

Nothing is more useful than silence

—Menander

My tonight.It’s all good.No worries.
#necessary 

My tonight.
It’s all good.
No worries.

#necessary 

8 please.Thanks.
I haven’t had a really good drinking night [with Frankie] in soo long. I miss Upper Marlboro. I miss Delveckio. I miss breaking my neck to watch ESPN shit that I wasn’t interested in. And making friends. And trying my best to make sure I was blinking correctly and not being drunk wit it.
And Dashawn. And salad bars. And taking turns pissing behind the AFRO Newspaper building…because we wouldn’t make it to the Safeway. And when we would make it to the safeway, we’d have conversations about penis size and without realizing, using merchandise in the baby aisle to demonstrate.
And leaving our barstools to go straight to the Catholic church at the corner of 29th and Charles and praying on the steps for 7 miracles, the KONY children, and for our jobs to adjust our pay to match how much weight we gained and couldn’t lose.
And watching Wipeout while doing shots of everything. And waking up the next day, going to work, and using our cell phones to recall the events of the previous night.
I miss good, clean, wholesome, “Yes I’m judging everyone else for being sober”, fuckery. It should happen soon. And with no one except mi loca Preciosa.
:qws: 

8 please.
Thanks.

I haven’t had a really good drinking night [with Frankie] in soo long. I miss Upper Marlboro. I miss Delveckio. I miss breaking my neck to watch ESPN shit that I wasn’t interested in. And making friends. And trying my best to make sure I was blinking correctly and not being drunk wit it.

And Dashawn. And salad bars. And taking turns pissing behind the AFRO Newspaper building…because we wouldn’t make it to the Safeway. And when we would make it to the safeway, we’d have conversations about penis size and without realizing, using merchandise in the baby aisle to demonstrate.

And leaving our barstools to go straight to the Catholic church at the corner of 29th and Charles and praying on the steps for 7 miracles, the KONY children, and for our jobs to adjust our pay to match how much weight we gained and couldn’t lose.

And watching Wipeout while doing shots of everything. And waking up the next day, going to work, and using our cell phones to recall the events of the previous night.

I miss good, clean, wholesome, “Yes I’m judging everyone else for being sober”, fuckery. It should happen soon. And with no one except mi loca Preciosa.

:qws: 

When you can’t have what you want, it’s time to start wanting what you have.

—Kathleen A. Sutton

This took me back to junior high.
almost stabbed a kid once.
dropped the F bomb in the middle of test instead.
took me three years to do it.
i just snapped.
really loud.

"FUCK" saved that boy’s life. 
probably my own too (giggle) 

ahhmmmburr: Juss cryin’ and typin’ and tryin’ to grow.

ahhmmmburr: Juss cryin’ and typin’ and tryin’ to grow.


I am broken. I am broken open. Breaking is freeing. Broken is freedom. I am not broken I am free

I am broken. I am broken open. Breaking is freeing. Broken is freedom.

I am not broken
I am free

(Source: schoefflings, via greydotmatters)

I need for someone to tell me that I’m not broken. I know it will happen in God’s time and I by far am NOT questioning his methods, timing or guidance …. I simply need to know that I’m not broken.

—Identity Concealed 

Max Roach

—Freedom Day

greydotmatters:

Song: Freedom Day
Artist: Max Roach
Album: We Insist!: Max Roach’s - Freedom Now Suite