That hard part is figuring out just how to say it, just how to make it coherent enough for people who don’t understand jumbled phrases, misused words, and extravagant run-on sentences that cover a wide variety of topics including but not limited to: doubts, worries, food options, which emoji to use, Friday night plans, perfect clubin’ outfit choice and flavors of cheese that pair well with 2$ red wine.
I feel so much all the time; my emotions are like a romantic comedy (everyone should love each other!) , psychological thriller (what happened.. Wait what… WHYYY? *Muhahah*) , regular comedy (*Muhahah continues*) and mystery (what is a Bijanca?) all jumbled into one brown body with a big’ol’booty.
I can’t really get a hold on myself a lot of the time.
On the outside I am truly as happy and fun as I appear to most people. So these two parts of myself clash; the static happy-go-lucky, silly girl and the shape-shifting maniac with insane thoughts staked with melodramatic undertones.
I guess I want to write some stuff down to try and understand who I am better, and WHAT THE F%&K I am doing with my life.
Maybe one day I’ll know better, but for now I am Bijanca Laurel Clark and I am confused, lonely, excited, scared, happy, optimistic, sad and NUTZ.
I’m waiting for someone to heal the parts of me that seem broken, that I deem broken.
Sitting as if I am half empty in the waiting room. Tick toc. Tick toc.
When is my appointment? Are they going to let me know when I am whole? Does happiness happen to people like me? I deserve it, right? I am worth it, right? Do I matter?
Do I matter?
Who would stir if I no longer existed?
The memory of me is probably better anyway.
Beautiful Bijanca. She was so beautiful. Beauty, as if I win because guys want to fuck me. And women are either jealous or like me because… I look likeable? That’s my life.
I have heart. I have depth and care but who cares? Not you. Why would you? You have heart and care too. How original. But hey, have you heard? I’m beautiful. Because I’m beautiful. Don’t forget to let me know that I’m beautiful therefore..
I’m still alone. Unsaveable. Out of choice? Out of choice. Am I your instrument.. how often, how much can I be used before I’m no longer even beautiful? Do tell. I’m waiting.
I was casually sipping my latte in one hand as the sun went down on that cold, midday in December. With the other, I refreshed my Instagram feed and decided to call my roommate– lets call her Shmangela, Angie for short.
I like the romanticism of living a top secret life while simultaneously sharing every detail when no one asked me to, so I use code names. I’d like for you, at this time, to have a mental image of me as a bond girl. Sexual.
It was only two days before the turn of the century and I was curious to know what everyone had planned.
Ring, ring, ring… I asked Angie what the details were for the big N.Y.E.
Was she thinking of going highkey and having a house party or was she lowkey thinking of attending some sort of event? What was the scoop? What was the key?
She said she had absolutely no plans and that really, it was just open.
No matter, I had already decided that I was to enter 2020 with an absolute BANG! And to create such a bang, I’d have to look both bangin’, and bangable.
It didn’t take long to mentally prepare my outfit, accessories and general vibe. I was going to adorn myself with a ball gown, satin gloves and over the top jewelry.
As my life goes, within the next thirty minutes I had connected with a former classmate and been invited to a New Year’s Eve extravaganza, V.I.P. — Duh! It felt like fate. I was to have a stage for my ensemble; It was quite a way to ring in the New Year, New Decade.
I literally clapped my hands! Clap, Clap!
In addition, I said a quick prayer, “Please God, make it so my outfit and general vibe fits the venue. I am going big this next decade. I need a vibe check. Thanks, My G! Love ya!”
New Years Eve was a lovely event. I had champagne, I had cocktails, I had fans (literal and figurative), my neck was kissed, I strutted, I posed, I escaped a villain in the nick of time whilst being held in the strong arms of a suited man. Truly, I welcomed 2020 with open arms. It’s my year!
I woke up the next day with a string of questions: Why couldn’t I see? Was I dying? Why does water taste so bad? Where was I? Please help me. Am I actually dead?
I was sure death had come for me. I was almost ready for him to take me, assuming he was the same villain I had so narrowly escaped the night before. Between lulls at work — fuck, I had to work — I found myself so hungover I was disrespectfully spewing chunks into the toilet.
2020 felt visceral.
The appreciation I felt having just survived work filled me slowly as I walked to my door. It left almost instantaneously.
Where was my 2000 Honda Accord? Where was the tan beauty? Where did she go?
My car had been towed. I was supposed to move it that morning. But, alas, my eyes were ablur when walking past due to the fate of seeing the proverbial light of death’s sweet kiss.
Did you know you have to pay for your car getting towed AND A MUTHAFUCKIN TICKET?
Having rescued my poor Honda, I parked her, gave a small pat to the dash and thought aloud, “Hey girl that’s my bad. Life happens tho! See u L8tr!”
Three days passed.
I was on my way to acting class when I recognized that my Honda, which usually sounds like a purring kitty, was so loud that it sounded like an ice cream truck, if the song the truck blasted over the speakers was reminiscent of two large animals simultaneously fighting and dying.
Curious, I headed to get my oil changed?!
The lovely mechanic informed me that, yes, an oil change was a good idea and I should probably get a new filter. But also, that a piece of pipe had been expertly sawed out from underneath my car.
“Oh!” I continued, “Is that normal?” He responded, “No, absolutely not.”
I drove off loudly wondering to my Honda, who the fuck CASUALLY carries around a saw?
In case you were looking for a score update, below it is listed as follows:
2 wins – the Obscure Villain | 0 wins – Honda Accord | -2 wins – Bijanca L Clark
I was expertly woken from slumber at approximately 3:43am the following Sunday night from rap music blasting in the kitchen.
Umm…Wow?! Imma need to say something because this isn’t a good look.
Picture This: a curly headed monster resembling a human being in a long, thick blue robe who can barely see out of her left eye, emerging from a cave.
Over the poetic sounds of Da Baby so sweetly singing he was, in fact, going baby on baby. I politely said, “Hey, -_-, can you turn the music down or go in your room?”
After about 30 minutes, my request was granted.
Look at me demanding that sweet respect… no but really, tomorrow I’ll talk to her about it!
The next day Angie and I crossed paths in the bathroom.
It was my time. If my Honda Accord could be so unbelievably disrespected and still shine like a star, so could I!
“Hey Angie, I don’t think you were being disrespectful the other night, I just think you weren’t being very thoughtful. And I live here, ya know? So next time just think a little more.”
It felt like a moment of pure, concentrated adulthood. 2020 had changed me in the best way. I deserved respect, NO! I demanded it. I communicated a boundary and I did a damn good job.
She also had something else to say, I was ready for it.
“Hey, so, we’re gonna need you to move out by the end of the month.”
My heart was beating in my ears. Like, I could feel my heart beat through the holes in my head. I could feel the excitement, no, the elation of the stage.
The presentation, the glamour, the emotion, the holding of attention, the giving of everything I have to entertain, to make the audience fall in love, to make them laugh. Smile.
The spot. light.
How can I hold the attention of the spotlight, how can I shine as bright as the light shines on me. How can I transform into the Star that I am. I want it. I NEED IT. I crave the energy of a performance, the buzz of my body as I raditate the heat of my stardom.
I yearn to leave a story out on that stage that connects deeper than the words, the dance, the gestures, the story I want to tell is the story I want you to feel- so that I can transform you, bewitch you, make love to you.
If only for this moment. If only in this light.
I’ve had very limited time on a stage, so I pretend all my life is a stage. I perform any chance I have. Bijanca is dynamic. Bijanca is what the situation calls for. Bijanca shows up to dazzle, Bijanca shines, Bijanca holds back to listen, Bijanca is silent and thoughtful.
I am my greatest work of art, I am the best performance I’ve ever seen.
I’ve wondered. In this world where I have to have as many people consume me to be anything, what do I do?
I’ll be consumed, take me as you would like. But I cannot create, manufactured interaction. I cannot force myself upon you if it did not come from my core to share. So, now what? I will not bend to your needs as my audience, I am the performer.
It’s my stage, it’s my show.
My heart pounds after the stage is just a platform, after the lights dim.
Because I am a Star and the experiece is my stage.
And you are my audience. And you will connect a little deeper to love when you see me perform.
I want to break free…. I want to breakkkk freeeeee!!
What a line.
Little Bijanca would have never thought four days from her 25th birthday she’d be dedicating those stirring lyrics to her life.
What that means is this, kids. I want to break free from my life.
I laughed out loud when I wrote that, but in a sad kind of way.
Hey. You. It’s not what you think. It’s not because I don’t get that everyone stuggles and every age is hard.
It’s specifically, because I KNOW everyone stuggles and every age is hard.
Like, umm, not cute?
Basically, the name of the game is this: When something good happens, no matter what (think moment when you gave yourself the “Im friggen sexy” eyes when walking past mirror before peeing your heart out) LIVE IT UP.
Literally get HYPE. HYFEE!
Because it’ll pass and you might just step in shit the next minute. That’s why.
Who the fuck knows what’s next, Sarah, OK? I DEFINITELY DO NOT, OK Saarahhhh—
—Sorry, Sarah. It’s not you. It’s life. Brunch next Sunday? Mimosas on me, bitch. Tehe!*
When we look at life it’s really just bazaar. Anthony Bourdain was alive and now that motherfucker with the dope ass job, the money, the fame but struggling to all hell on the inside is d-e-a-d because he wanted to break free and took it to the literal.
Not funny, but I laughed again?! It’s a personal problem, and I should seek help. I’ll (re)google therapy later.
My personal medicine, besides popcorn and pinterest, is harnessing the power of a laugh. When I’m gifted with a laugh I let it spread, because if I looked at the reality of the situation… it’s bleak.
No one loves life all the time. It’s impossible. That’s the point– apparently. We’re supposed to be present so we can just take all this shit as it comes, one thing at a time.
Life is a conveyor belt that hopefully keeps bringing much better stuff along. More macaroons and less poop flavored donuts.
So this is my thought. When the macroon comes, Immagonna bite into that little baby like it’s Leonard DiCaprio and do a little dance like a wanna be striper. I’ll flip a table like a rockstar on cocaine. Becuase it’s better than eating it while scrolling through the gram and thinking about the butt donut that’s about to come my way, which fer sure will come.
So friends, when I say I want to break free I’m joking, a little (mostly serious). But honestly, I’ve had some great macarons in my day.
I know there is more to come too and I’m excited for opportunity to guzzle them down without getting actual crums everywhere, actually tho.
I love a good laugh. And hopefully, just maybe, I’ll get lucky enough for a creme brulee to slide my way within the next 25 years– hold the shit glaze.
I find my boyfriend hysterical. I truly think the intricacies of his speech, walk and laughter are amazing. Every night (and more recently every day as I no longer have a job) we cuddle up together on the couch and I get to observe him.
What the fuck are e-sports and like really… you’re good at using a controller to make stuff happen on a screen?
Hella over that. He even told me there is, like, a league where if you’re good enough you can go to a “tournament” and win likka cash-$money millionaire.
I love Mitchy, but I dont understand him sometimes. On my momma, this is, like, really normal. I read it all the time. Girls/Boys don’t/won’t understand boys/girl. It’s the way it flows, man.
Though true, I like understanding things. I like knowing what’s going on. Generally, when I know what’s happening and I understand the concept of why it’s happening I feel way way more secure.
Take for instance what LITERALLY just happened.
“Do you want to go to dinner before the movie?” -me
“I mean.. dramatically swings head back and forth and sighs… sure” -him
Ok, drama. The fuck does that mean? He looked like a father who cant afford to send their children to summer camp this year.
I asked. To go. To dinner.
I don’t understand this. I literally question it. But usually after about 1.35 minutes I just move on to the next subject or the next confusion and stare at him somemore.
It’ so interesting to want to know someone so much, but not understand them at all sometimes.
I think part of being in a relationship is wanting to be an explorer. An explorer of people. Asking questions, observing, having casual conversations, it all adds up to one thing: the goal.
The most important part of exploring is having a goal, the thing which is being explored.
So what is the goal of the relationship? What happens when you’ve gone a thorough dive, a deep spelunk? Is that the goal? Do you move on?
When it comes to exploring, when is enough, enough?
Its never easy to know what to do and when to do it. But I know one thing and that’s that I love this man and I couldn’t care less about e-sports. Yet, I still think…
And I find nights on the couch are the perfect place to ponder this.