melissa beck

WRONG.

Once Diane was settled in at work, she thought about that doll. Lying there. Like a fucking beacon of evil on the back seat. Its black mouth opening wide as a bass to reveal 232 little teeth. The teeth shooting out of the black hole mouth, like shrapnel, wounding the children. Blood spattering all over the interior of the Honda Pilot. She was rattled by this imagined horror. She knew she had to ask around to confirm her fears.

Sure enough, other moms with daughters the same age,  had gotten the creepy porcelain dolls delivered to their doorsteps in the same neighborhood. Ten in total. Ten little beacons of evil delivered right to their front porches. “Oh hell no,” said Valerie. “This can’t be,” said Jane. “Guys, the dolls look like our daughters,” screamed Beth!

They called the police.

The police said they didn’t really have a crime to investigate.

Um.

Then Diane was like,

So they said they'd dig around and "look into it."

  The next morning, everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the cops figured out that it was just a little old lady from the church.

The moms felt so bad about automatically assuming the worst. They decided to put together a tea party to thank the little old lady, to apologize for the misunderstanding.

Diane was the first to speak up. Diane had the doll on her lap as Sally stood beside her. Diane played with Sally’s hair as she spoke. “This is actually such a beautiful gesture. I’m so sorry we misunderstood. There was just no note and in today’s day and age, we can never be too careful. I’m so sorry. We love the doll. Thank you so much.” She nudged Sally toward the old lady. Sally hesitated as a nine-year-old might. “Go on Sally, give her a hug. Say thank you for the doll,” Diane muttered in her fake nice voice, gently scolding the child in front of all to see.

SALLY. LET ME STOP YOU RIGHT THERE.

Do not hug that little old church lady. That voice inside that is telling you no! Listen to that voice. THAT WAVY FEELING IN YOUR TUMMY. THAT STRAINING IN YOUR BUTTHOLE. THAT IS YOUR INTUITION TELLING YOU EVIL IS LURKING. She ain’t up to no good. Your mother has let her guard down.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO.

FUCK THAT OLD LADY!

RUN SALLY, RUN!

Sally. Resist.

That little old lady has the strength of a pedophile giant under that frilly dress. In the basement, her old ass do-nothing ass creeper ass masturbating ass Cat Fancy subscriber red lipstick wearing rapist ass son dwells. He's wearing eyelet bloomers as he sharpens his knife collection. He decoupaged a coffee table with images of Amanda Knox. He ain't right. He ain't right!

They work as a team. One lures you to the second location. YOU FIGHT, YOU FIGHT. Never let them take you to the second location. You kick nuts in and smash and grind them with the heel of your boot. You bite. You punch. You thrash side to side, left to right, zig zag in this motherfucker. Hit soft places. Punch the nose. Kick the throat. Bear down on the hands with all your might. Pinch tiny pieces of flesh in the inner thigh. PINCH. BITE. KICK. SCRATCH. PULL HAIR. KEEP ALL OF THIS DNA FOR YOUR REPORT. Do not go to the second location, where the son is waiting to live out his sick fantasies. DO NOT GO SALLY.

This is the world we live in. Diane is wrong! Do not accept this doll. You will show that you are vulnerable. 

WE DO NOT ACCEPT THIS SOLVED MYSTERY OFFICERS. AIN'T SHIT SOLVED!

I Know My Name Is Steven. Remember that? Kidnapper asked about donations for the church. Amanda Berry. Remember that? Tricked her with a puppy as a gift. Don’t nobody want your scary ass dusty ass moth ball stinking ass doll lady, FUCK OUTTA HERE. Countless examples.

Fuck that lady. I don’t care. I don’t care.

Whoo. Had to get that off my chest. 

One is in diapers and the other is a busybody. Both knew better than to trample through the sugar on the floor to sit on top of, beneath the vulva of the exhibit like Pat did.

Let's forget, for a moment, the subject matter of A Subtlety. And think about plain good home training. You don't go to any place housing any works of art and touch. 

You quietly observe.

You show respect.

You keep your hands to yourself.

You do not touch. 

And now let's think (for days and days since visiting the exhibit) specifically about the subject matter and all of its tentacles. And to that I say again, 

It's not yours to touch and 

Jeremy Meeks  is now repped by Gina Rodriguez and he's been signed to Blaze Models.

My prayer is that Gina didn't waste this opportunity to be gangster as fuck (wink wink) with her submissions. Please say she sent out his zed card, a collage of photos all shot in the jail -- Here's Jeremy smizing at the urinal. Here he is smizing as he does a push up. Here here is leaning on the bars, lips parted gently. Here he is making his one phone call, serious face -- with a handwritten note that said only, "Let's lock him down..." Oh please say she did this. 

Gina represents Butt Fuck Anal Sex with Pregnant Teens Farrah Abraham, Tila Tequila, V Stiviano and Octomom so I feel like this is going to work out. Jeremy has star power and he shines brightest on her roster. 

Anyone calling her with death threats for taking Jeremy on as a client is on that hater shit. Save those phone calls for the people who represent Casey Anthony and Trayvon Martin's Killer. Duh. 

"All I wanna do is give you that thing."

Crazily enough, that's not even where he first had me fucked up. No intelligent man with an actual plan is poking his morning boner in the small of an angry lady's back after a long night of silent treatment, but I guess Robin Thicke isn't really in the actual business of getting her back. 

Let's start with the pretty lady underwater. Who is that bitch, sir? You want to get me back and the first thing you do is sit in on casting and find a motherfucker half prettier than me? Oh. See, you aren't trying at all, are you? Then, then, then! You have the unmitigated nerve to have her hands all wrapped up and caressing your body. You must be a damn fool. I don't care about your art, sir. You are slinking around with some tramp talking about all you wanna do is "keep it light." No, all you wanna do is keep it so far from right. That's what I'm seeing. 

You wrote a whole album for me? You write albums. And? Did you write checks for this baby and for my lifestyle today? That's the writing I'm concerned with. I accept PayPal and I know you have my email address so, go on ahead and get to it. 

Am I supposed to care that you got a bloody nose? What exactly are you implying? I am confused. Did you punch a wall and smash your face into the coffee table, just so upset, that you messed up? If that's the case, you really are a plum ass fool. Now you gotta go get spackle, get the broom, get the paint, replace the table. 

Like, if you were making a real attempt, why didn't you make a beautiful slideshow of all the best photos I've ever taken before I had the baby? Then post amazing photos of our gorgeous child. Like, have you no idea how to impress me? Show me how amazing I was when I was skinny. Show me how great I am since I agreed to carry your seed to term, giving you this beautiful child. Insert some photos of me with trophies and prizes. Go interview other people that have wonderful things to say about me. What is this crap? You didn't ask my permission to screen cap and expose my text messages. Freak. 

We've been rolling deep since high school and you haven't figured any of this out. This whole time? 

I'm sure you have John Legend's number. Ask him how to write some lyrics that might work. I'm more impressed that he rhymed "edges" with "imperfections." This man managed to throw shade and compliment a motherfucker while sitting at a piano and here you are with this mess. 

Get. Get from around here, Robin. 

Before you go though, is Tanya gonna be helping you with the baby next weekend? It's summertime. Can't have your dim ass forgetting the baby in the damn car while you're in the studio trying to get me back. 

We arrived at Buy Buy Baby and as I was teaching her how to navigate the baby superstore, I thought Wow, this is useful information that I can stupidly share for free without ever reaping the benefits of sponsorship because a) I cuss too much and b) I’m way too honest. So with that, bookmark this shit if you’re with child or you plan on having one in the future. Or just read this and continue enjoying your autonomy because as I write this a huge, heavy, sweaty toddler with teeth is nursing while napping on my chest so there’s that.

When you get to Buy Buy Baby, find a parking spot in the back with fewer cars surrounding you. Trust me. If you park in a good spot near the front, I’m telling you there will be problems. After you’ve wasted a good two hours and $576 in there, you don’t want to have to wield a knife at the impatient mom who’s watching, staring as you load a big ass bathtub and boxes of diapers. Her blinker is blink blonk blink blonk blink blonk blink blonk. You’re getting all antsy trying to rush this game of Tetris you’re playing with all this baby gear and then you snap. “Bitch, all these spots and you’re gonna sit here waiting for this one. Really?” You don’t want that. Not in front of the children. Just park in the back.

Now, upon arrival say hello to the security guard at the entrance. With your eyes. With a smile. If you have to come back to this motherfucker with a few returns in the next couple of hours or days or months, he will allow you to park in the fire zone without saying shit. On a rainy day, especially, with a newborn? Your politeness will pay off.

These superstores are set up a like a supermarket. The real shit, the necessities like fresh fruit, vegetables, stuff that won’t clog your arteries and give you a heart attack are on the outer aisles. In Buy Buy Baby or Why, Why Did I  Agree To Have This Colicky No Sleeping Ass Second Bye Felicia Bye Baby, the diapers, onesies, toiletries, strollers and car seats are on the outer aisles. There’s no real reason to venture off into the middle lands. At the supermarket you find the empty calories in the middle lands. Same with the baby superstore. You don’t need a special wipe for the pacifier. Throw some water on that shit. You don’t need a special lavender scented bag for a shitty diaper. That shit will still stink and now you’ve made more trash for the landfill. In fact, you don’t need the Diaper Genie. It’s just vacuum sealing a big old pile of ammonia stench in the corner of the baby’s room. If your partner takes the trash out every day like he’s supposed to, you don’t have a need for this item. That thing is especially wasteful because it’s like used bra and underwear. You really gonna donate the shitty diaper container? Yes, it was expensive and yes you wish you could repurpose it or make someone’s life brighter with it but it ain’t happening so throw it in the woodchipper.

Now, I’m super into babies and toddlers. What I’m not into is their stuff. Yes, I am a mom. Yes, I will fucking stab you in the chest plate if you try it with my babies. But I’m not trying to have my living space look like the baby pays the mortgage. He can have his weights in the corner of the closet because he pays these here bills. Maja, you cannot have that big ass plastic noise-making door you crawl through all damn day smack dab in the middle of this dining room. No ma’am. I feel this same way about my personal space. I am not carrying around a big ass diaper bag full of unnecessary shit. Why the fuck do I need a special container for the pacifier? The container is the baby’s mouth or my pocket, right?  I need a special Tupperware for the Cheerios shaped like a Cheerio with two separate openings on the lid? The baby is gonna spill the shit all over the stroller or car seat regardless of the packaging so here’s this small Ziploc bag you can’t manage to fit over your face. Eat your Cheerios. Hush now. I’m trying to hear Partition, which I’m playing on the lowest workable volume so you and the napping baby can’t hear it but I can. Shhh, hush now.

OK. So you have the proper mindset to enter the store. Onto my list of essentials.

If you need to give a gift and you know the mom is going to diaper her baby in such a way that is convenient and destroys the earth, two boxes of diapers are a great and thoughtful gift. That’s about $75 to $100! When you’re spending one hundred of your own dollars on an item that collects fecal matter and gets thrown in the garbage, you’re so appreciative when it’s someone else’s hundred dollars. It’s psychological! Get one small box of the newborn size because there’s nothing worse than leftover newbie diapers. You’ll hang on to them. In three months, you’ll pull them out of the drawer and admire them. So small, so precious. Then, in two or three years, you’re diapering a Cabbage Patch Kid at the demands of this once baby now toddler. You’re putting a 25-cent expensive ass diaper on a doll. Yeah, so get the small box of newborn diapers. Then get a large box of the size 1s. I opt for the diapers with the wetness indicator.

The yellow line turns green when the baby is wet. For a first time mom, this little line is a big deal. The baby will be crying and you’re gonna think, “Is she wet?” You won’t yet know to just feel for mush. You might even be ridiculous enough to untab the diaper and actually open it to check. Bless you. You’re gonna want an indicator that tells you your gut instinct to change the wet baby was right. It’s a small pat on the back that you’ll need because you might be alone with that baby all day wondering if you’re fucking her life up, if every move you make will ultimately send her down a path lined with black tar heroin and ripped fishnet stockings in an alley. All small reassurances that you’re doing the right thing are welcome. Wetness indicator, go for it.

Onesies. I’m a Carter’s person. But I don’t go for the onesie that snaps at the bottom until the baby’s belly button thing falls off. Picture yourself with a huge, protruding scab on your stomach. It’s sensitive. It’s hardening. It’s dangling. Are you going to put on a tight ass t-shirt, flush up against this wound? No. One false move and it’s a wrap. Before I put my baby in a onesie, I put her in the side snap shirt with little pants.

Keeping all pressure away from and off of the belly button gunk as I wait for it to fall off. When I see a tiny newborn baby in a onesie with the fabric all rubbed up and possibly sticking with blood and pus, “Ooh no,” I think. “Did your foolish daddy dress you today little mama? I’m sorry. Let me help you get comfortable, poor thing.” The thing with babies is you ask yourself what would you want if you were in their fragile little position? No, you don’t want shit rubbing against your open wounds.

I had to learn the hard way that my babies’ skin was sensitive. I love the smell of old school Johnson and Johnson products. The pink. The baby powder. The purple. The yellow. I love it. My babies however would get all splotchy and red if I layered them with fine-smelling. Also, don't use baby powder on your child's bottom or privates. The tiny granule of talcum powder can travel into her little system and you know how a pearl forms when an irritant is trapped in the oyster? Yeah that. I'm not a medical expert, but I bet that shit is true. Anyway, I switched to California Baby products. They smell great and they’re super gentle. They ain’t cheap so as a gift, they’re perfect. If you look at gifts as things you want badly, but would never splurge on for yourself, then this is a nice gift. Get the body wash and the lotion. If you’re really generous, get the sunblock. $24 for a little ass bottle, Maja goddamn!

Cradle cap is disgusting. As a new mom, you’re gonna be examining and Google-diagnosing your baby all day and all night. You will notice oily flakes on the child’s head. You will wash the scalp and this moldy film will still be there. You’re gonna listen to the Internet and get all kind of oils and combs and bullshit and the flakes will still be there. Then, you’ll ask Twitter and you’ll find out that all you ever needed was Mustela Foam Shampoo for Newborns.

One bottle lasts forever. I use it on the baby even without cradle cap because it smells amazing. Like what I imagine Blue Ivy’s wealthy neck folds smelled like when she was a baby.

The baby will cry. She might cry a lot. She might never want to be put down. At the four month mark, you’re gonna go, “Is she teething already?” Everybody will say “Oh no no. She’s too young for that.” You’ll know in your head that the baby could very well be teething because she’s your baby and what you say goes. Also, duh. The little teeth are down in there. Their only job is to make themselves seen. Your baby’s mouth could have bomb work ethic. You don’t know what that mouth do. Strikethrough. Strikethrough. But I’m saying. You’re gonna want to approach this holistically. You don’t want to rub a chemical ointment on your baby’s gums. You want to alleviate this problem with zero chemicals and a little bit of new mom flair. Enter these little ampoules.

They look really cool. They’re easy to carry around. Other moms in your presence might say, “Oh what’s that?” And you’ll say, “Just some organic stuff for her colic. To ease her teething pain.” The other moms’ eyes will ooh and aaah. It’s like taking out a gold pack of Nat Sherman cigarettes and lighting up a pink one. It’s not cool at all, but it looks fashionable as fuck. Does this stuff work? Who fucking knows? But emotionally, you’ll get a rush out of trying to solve the problem all organic and mindful like. And like I said, these look cool. You’ll even lie to yourself. “Her tantrum was Richter scaling at an 8. I’d say it’s a 6.5 after I dropped this stuff in her mouth. For sure, for sure. You hear that? I can hear my thoughts again. Shit works!”

The Aden and Anais blankets are amazing and multipurpose as fuck. You can use them to keep the baby warm. For swaddling. As a nursing cover if you’re into that. As a cover over the top of the newborn car seat carrier as you run errands and want to keep the world’s vermin off your baby. As a picnic blanket. As a headwrap at the beach (I’ve done it). As a cover on the hot ass driver seat in the summer if you have a short skirt on and don’t want to burn your thigh skin. They fold up tiny. The material is lightweight and gauzy. And when your baby isn’t a baby anymore, if you got the plain white or the jewel toned ones, you will find other ways to use these. They’re expensive but worth it.

The high chairs at restaurants are vile. Do they even wipe them down? Cool splinters. Cool filthy seat belt. I had to work on my face when a hostess, seeing me with my baby, would ask me if I needed a high chair. My screw face was strong. I’ve toned it down, but yeah, that’s how offended I am by community high chairs. This is why the Phil&Ted Lobster high chair is amazing. You can wipe it down. Windex it. Clorox spray it, whatever. And it folds flat, taking up very little space in the trunk. Plus baby feels like she’s a part of the family as she sits at the table and enjoys dinner. Not like a noisy food-sputtering eight-armed burden on the rest of the establishment just floating out there, close enough to your table.

If you’ve ever found yourself in a YouTube vortex of ingrown toenail removal. Or blackhead popping. Or ear candling, chances are you will love the NoseFrida. Don’t be put off by the fact that you have to use your own mouth to make it work because it’s the only nasal aspirator that actually does work. Satisfyingly so.

It is better than the expensive battery operated ones that sing songs. It is way better than the disgusting bulb they give you at the hospital. Cut that thing open after a couple uses and see what kind of nasty is in there. Go ahead. The NoseFrida is just… So much shit will come out of your baby’s face with this thing. When she’s stuffed up with a cold you’re gonna be so excited to use this. For every sniffle, Frida. Freaking amazing. Cheap. All you need to do is buy the little blue spongy replacement filters every now and again. And I run this through the dishwasher after a long day of snot removal.

I’m a person that thought my child would only play with wooden toys made locally in Brooklyn by some secretly wealthy poor-looking lady who uses crystal deodorant and wore Birkenstocks before this Normcore Movement took off. I really thought I was going to adhere to this organic bullshit plan. “Battery operated? Oh no no.” Well, shit bitch, you need this seahorse. My baby is now 16 months old and still has never slept through the night. But I insist this seahorse is a necessity. There’s gotta be some kind of scientific magic to this thing. It can cut her irritability down from a level 2000 to at least a 1993 for few minutes at max. Amazon reviews will tell you to be wary of a short circuiting battery that may cause sparks, flesh wounds and house fires but I’m telling you, the shit is soothing if you use it properly. Everybody says you need that pretty little hipster giraffe and its adorable squeaky cousins, but those are for decoration, status and Instagram. This seahorse is putting in real work.

I just watched V Stiviano’s 20/20 interview with Barbara Walters. And wow.

This is a story about two sociopaths. Sadly, the one with the money made the mistake of believing he was the one with power. V Stiviano is running this show and she’s so dangerous I’m scared to even write this.

I knew she’d go for the all white suit when she sat down to do her first interview. Let us take a moment to pay our respects and pay this homage to the late, great Ms. Houston. 

I’m most fascinated that she’s cast herself as the innocent bystander in all this. That “she’s hurting.” That she wears the visor because “it’s easier to mask the pain.” The pain she felt so deeply when she was seen listening to Beyonce’s Blow as she boogied down the street in hot pants and rollerskates.

This interview was not for us. This interview was  specifically for Donald and Rochelle Sterling. Delivered with firm intentions. This is “You wanna fuck with me?”

She says Donald Sterling is emotionally traumatized by “...everyone. From the media. From his peers. From his fellow employees. From his acquaintances. He’s more hurt by the things he said himself.” She wants to help him, “urging him to come to his own rescue.” This is V rapping, tap dancing on dude’s early grave like Started From The Bottom Now We Here. Now your whole team here, Donald. In my hands, sir.

  She took everything from him. She took the man’s dog probably. She said I will even destroy your relationship with your doorman, the janitor, the pedicurist. That’s why she included the word acquaintances. He can make this all go away. She’s throwing out a life raft. If he does what she says, she will stop. I can’t be the only person hearing the message. It’s crystal clear.

“I’m Mr. Sterling’s right hand arm … man. I’m his everything. His confidante. His best friend. His silly rabbit.”  Then later, when Barbara pressed more about the nature of their relationship she said, “Like I said, I’m his wingman.” I took the Buzzfeed How Transphobic Are You quiz and I scored appropriately. Let me just preface this with that. I understand that by simply making this observation I can be viewed as transphobic. It’s like when folks say “I don’t see color.” Yes you do. We all do. You might not necessarily be a racist because you do, but bitch you see that shit so stop. This is that.

I believe V is slowly revealing her identity in pointed, calculated terms. Not for personal acceptance. I think she’s already there. Been there. She’s the most confident, self-assured, composed, media savvy villainess we’ve seen in a long time. I think that piece of information is just another stick of dynamite for when we all tire of the racist angle. She’s got 100 more hours of tape and the clock is ticking. The explosion ain’t even happen yet. If she gets what she wants, Fitz can still sit in his little office and do nothing. But cross her again, KABOOM KA BLAM I TOLD YOUR ASS ROCHELLE. I TOLD YOU DON’T PLAY WITH ME. 

Watch and learn, folks. This is The Sociopath Next Door. Just on a supercharged Hollywood Lifetime but replayed ad nauseum on Logo level saga.

V says herself, this is “On a level which it became a big scandal.” Barbara clarifies, “Scandalous?” V, astutely reframes by dismissing and pretending to misunderstand Barbara and says, “No. On a level which it became a big scandal.” V is taking ownership of the scandal for herself. This is her scandal. This is her legacy. This is her doing. There’s a weird pride with her work. All in the same breath that she proclaims innocence in the leaking of the tapes despite the fact that she, as his “archivist” collected the information surreptitiously but out in the open based on her job title. She’s bad. BAD. When she says “became” she means it didn’t have to get to this point.

Let me further break it down. She says,

“It’s here. And some things needed to be brought to the light. And I think sometimes we’re forced into situations, into circumstances in which we have to choose to do good by.” V means she wasn’t bluffing. She says she thinks “Mr. Sterling is being tested right now … and I’m forced to come to his rescue because he can’t rescue himself.”  SOS, bitch. [I am fighting everything inside me to not add a photo of a sinking ship. Now is the wrong time for that. Finger is itching near the pound key too. Don't do it, Melissa. You're better than using an inappropriate hashtag.] 

She made herself both the innocent bystander and the hero. She was just doing her charity work. She was just advising Mr. Sterling on what not to say. She was just being paid for her services with luxury housing and luxury vehicles then somebody had to say some shit. Somebody had to get in the way. And that was not the plan. That was not her plan. She told him which way to go. He chose not to follow her lead. He chose to let little old Rochelle alleviate her scorn by going after V and her earnings. And that was the wrong choice Sterlings.

V ain’t here to play. They truly underestimated her. If I suddenly have four cents’ worth of sympathy for an old ass racist, you know V Stiviano ain’t here to play. This has been in the works for months, years. She has matching visors for each #OOTD. Pink, motherfucker. Pink. Go try to find a pink visor like this on a whim. You can't! 

She came with a suitcase and protective headgear. She’s suited up for battle. She's his silly rabbit. She got all the tricks and they're not suitable for children. This is for grown folks. Y'all can sit up here and wait for the part where she puts you in a box and hacks you into pieces, all the pieces if you want. Keep losing, go ahead. I suggest you give her the money that I know she wants.

I’m very interested in very few things. Namely, my babies. Hello Kitty. Glassjaw. Racism. Other biracial girls. Crime. And Sociopaths.

  When I heard these audio tapes? Listen. Jackpot!

An angry, racist Don Sterling reprimands his black Mexican girlfriend of four years for posing with and posting an Instagram photo of Magic Johnson because to him black people “are treated like dogs” for good reason, because “culture.” And you know, black folks are less than white people “one hundred percent, fifty, a hundred percent.”

  At first, I was interested in dissecting the conversation. Having argued about racism with some of the most hardheaded dumbasses I’ve ever met for most of my life, I understood every sad mark Sterling hit.

  “If it was Larry Bird would it make a difference?” V asks. He replies, “Why would you bring up Larry Bird? What does he got to do with it?” -- You try to help the racist understand how stupid he is by proposing a white hypothetical. They will in turn belligerently ask what that has to do with anything. EL-MAO.

  “All you ever wanted to do is fight. You’re a born fighter,” Sterling says. -- The racist would like you to believe that all of this discomfort, all this unnecessary anger is because you’re just an angry black lady like the rest of them. You created this! Your anger is an irrational response to how the world simply works. Can’t you get it through your thick skull that black people deserve to die at all times for no reason? Like, why do you want to argue about that with me, you nigger coon octoroon?

  “There’s nothing wrong with minorities. They’re fabulous!” This is an extension of the #1 standby  I Can’t Be Racist, My BFF Is Black. The blanket compliment is supposed to move you to move on.

  “I mean, you change from day to day. Wow. So painful…” and “You’re perceived as either a Latina or a white girl...”  and “Is there a benefit to you [to be seen with black people]?” -- This one is a special dig reserved for the biracial opponent. Because you’re only half black and somehow have the powers to remove yourself from the headache of being black, the racist can’t understand why you give a shit and why, in turn, you’re giving him shit about this. Just ignore your blackness, stupid!

  “I’m so sorry too. We made a giant mistake. Both of us. Everything you say to me is so painful.” -- Once the argument sputters to a dead stop in the middle of the desert and both of you are thirsty, ashy and exhausted because there’s no changing an octogenarian racist’s mind, he apologizes but puts half the onus on you. To this I say, L O L.

  But as I was listening to the tape so I could transcribe it accurately, I was struck by the crystal clear audio. And how she kept apologizing to this bigot. In all of my arguments, I never ever say sorry. The closest I get to an apology is saying I feel bad they’re so stupid and their reproductive systems are in tact. But I never say sorry for the points I’ve made (or yelled into their faces). 

I went to Twitter to wait for folks to rank V's secret recording of the conversation as the bigger offense here. Sure enough!

But nobody was talking about V's "trill wave feminism" as dubbed by Alesia of Black Girls Talking. V essentially kept her legs and recording devices open to racist billionaires to collect and destroy on some Maya Pope shit. Escandalo!

  I started to dig around and read everything I could find about this V Stiviano character.

  Folks can shame her as a gold digging whore all they want, but the bottom line is the bitch is BAD. She had a grown ass “shrewd businessman” billionaire tripping off her Instagram account. Are y’all not understanding the hilarity? She is destroying this bigot’s legacy with filters, selfies and hashtags. Are you not entertained?

  This is a seasoned professional.

  First of all, media can’t agree on her age. She’s been reported as either 21, 31 or 38. There’s no way in hell this lady is 21. Her elbows betray her. 

 And furthermore, babies don’t know to get shit in their name.

  According to the lawsuit brought by Rochelle Sterling, Don’s scorned wife (not ex), Stiviano holds the title to a $2 million apartment. *nails emoji*

  Sterling also allegedly gave Stiviano $1.8 million to buy a duplex on West 4th Street near the Beverly Center last December, according to the suit, which claims that Sterling additionally provided her with $240,000 for upkeep and living expenses.

The property was supposed to be held in the Sterlings’ name, Rochelle Sterling contends, but Stiviano has title and has refused to relinquish it. Arguing that the gifts were all allegedly made without Rochelle Sterling’s knowledge or consent, the complaint seeks their return along with compensatory damages.

I really want to understand why Rochelle thought Don was going to ask her permission to buy his jumpoff a luxury home and cars. Rochelle, Rochelle. Come on, now.

  And let’s talk about that crystal clear recording. V has claimed she’s his archivist, not his girlfriend. She slinked her way into this billionaire’s rotten little heart and home with a damn plan. This was no Radio Shack fly by night operation. This was B613 level execution. She dotted every i with that “archivist” shit. If his attorneys plan to argue that she gathered these recordings illegally, WELP.

  Then there are her many aliases. Look at the actual court documents. You know, I love a court document. Page 1. Look at all those AKAs. A 21-year-old hasn’t been on the earth long enough to pick that many names. Keep it real. Taylor Armstrong Shana Lynette Hughes Ford is somewhere taking notes. She never thought to target a racist billionaire no one would feel sorry for!

Dude. She even "interned" at the DA's office. Like, she knows how to use a microfiche. She researched case law and precedent and shit. She has a hunger for knowledge. She respects her craft.

When she lands her first major interview, I hope she wears the crystal encrusted Margiela mask because her worst misstep so far has been this visor.

If you follow me on Twitter, then you know about our experience with Hurricane Sandy. I've mostly abandoned this Tumblr, but I am sharing this here because I, well shit, I want to. I can't believe this! I just can't believe this. A huge tree fell on our house and collapsed onto my sleeping baby. In total blackness, Justin pulled her out from under all this. Super human strength, he said. We drove through the storm, dodging fallen trees and broken power lines to take her to the emergency room. After three hours, they discharged her saying there was not a SINGLE SCRATCH ON THIS BABY.

We knew there was debris and a tree on top of her, which is insane as it is, but we didn't know the magnitude of it until the next day when the sun came out. You can see photos here.