Queen, I ain't seen you in a minute wrote this letter, and finally decide to send it

Anyone who knows me knows they know

very little about my love life. I believe something should be enigmatic and everyone shouldn't everything about everybody. We are already in a society with the Patriot Act, Twitter, Myspace, Downelink, Facebook, Youtube, Aim/Yahoo, Texting and Emails that allow you to keep in touch in entirely too many ways.

However, this isn't about how overtly separate we are from each other. It is however, about the one connection that has

changed my life. This is what your friends are talking about when you complain that you need someone and cant find what you're looking for. They tell you to wait ... this is the epitome of what one would wait for.

I'm not a softee for people. In other words, I keep to myself, I don't need attention t

o make me feel like I'm alive and noticeable. Give me some music, something to do, and a goal that I need to reach and surpass and I'm completely.

You,Yashica have changed everything about me that detests too much attachment. I believe that's a beautiful thing.Many women think they have to compete with other women and distractions for the attention of their mate. Many don't know you have to compete against the psyche of their mate for their heart. Everything else is secondary.

Thankfully, you are cut from a different cloth and knew how to change my world in ways unimaginable by even myself. And for this, I am forever thankfully. As we embark closer to a year and even closer to the day when we are forever united in matrimony I pray that we stay side by side.

I love you,

Victoria Thomas

Hug YOUR Michael

[I had a million things to blog about, however, this posting by Maya Angelou is what I feel needs to be shared with everyone I know]

Yesterday I cried watching the Michael Jackson memorial. I cried for a
little black boy who felt the world didn't understand him. I cried for a little
black boy who spent his adulthood chasing his childhood. And I thought
about all the young black boys out there who may too feel that the world
doesn’t understand them. The ones who feel that the world does not understand
their baggy jeans, their swagger, their music, their anger, their struggles,
their fears or the chip on their shoulder. I worry that my son, may too,
one day will feel lonely in a wide, wide world. I cried for the young children of

all colors who may live their life feeling like a misfit, feeling like

no one understands their perspective, or their soul. What a burden to carry.


As a mother, I cried for Katherine Jackson because no mother should ever
bury a child. Period. And I think about all the pain, tears and sleepless
nights that she must have endured seeing her baby boy in inner pain, seeing
him struggle with his self-esteem, and his insecurities and to know he often
felt unloved even while the world loved him deeply. How does it feel to
think that the unconditional love we give as mothers just isn't enough to make
our children feel whole? I wonder if she still suffers thinking, "what
more could I have done?" Even moms of music legends aren't immune to mommy
guilt, I suppose.


When Rev. Al Sharpton ("who always delivers one awesome funeral
speech") said to Michael's children, "Your daddy was not strange... It was strange what
your Daddy had to deal with," I thought of all the "strange" things of the
world that my children will have to deal with. Better yet, the things I hope
they won’t ever have to deal with anymore.


And as a mother raising a young black boy, I feel recommitted and yet a
little confused as to how to make sure my son is sure enough within himself to
take on the world. Especially a "strange" one. To love himself enough to
know that even when the world doesn't understand you, tries to force you
into its mold or treats you unkindly, you are still beautiful, strong and
Black. How do I do that?


Today, I am taking back "childhood" as an inalienable right for every brown
little one. In a world, that makes children into booty-shaking,
mini-adults long before their time, I'm reclaiming the playful, innocent,
run-around-outside, childhood as the key ingredient in raising confident adults.
Second, I will not rest until my little black boy, MY Michael, knows that his
broad nose is beautiful, his chocolately brown skin is beautiful, and his
thick hair is beautiful. And nothing or no one can ever take that away from him.
"Now aint we bad? And ain't we black? And ain't we fine?

Hate Making It All About Me.

Most people's blogspots are me, me, me, I, I, I.

Grumble, Grumble

Complaint, Complaint.

Some respectable musings. Some interests sidebars here and there.

Actual self reflection is lacking.

At 21. I feel as though I skipped the age when self esteem and hormones coincide gracefully. I'm still stuck in awkward 13. No matter what I do. I'm never noticed. Oh, professors love me, my elders,

Most of my own colleagues/coworkers rather watch a dog clean it's testicles than listen to what I've got to say. Honestly. I feel as though I'm in a dark place mentally. Where Victoria hasn't quite kicked in yet. Survival is my only priority. I was so kicked down and tred upon in foster care, that when something offends me - I don't even have the energy to make a fuss.

The weird thing is - people have already gone through this stage at about 13-17. Four years later. I still don't know me. Go ahead, ask me a question. What do you like to do? I only have one steadfast and reliable response. Um, Journalism. Journalism is not a hobby or sport, simple the guise I hide behind to meld words together into shiny marble product that no one can resist.

I was definitely a late bloomer. Period, height, weight, breasts. Now, my metabolism has caught up with me.

The only part of myself, that I can stand behind is the fact that I am Queer. I love women, unapologetic about that. I love my ex. Unapologetic about that as well. She weirdly, is the only person who sees me. Treats me like I'm not a thing. Or a worker, or a doormat.

Trust me, I'm not complaining, or moaning and groaning. I could have easily been born into a third world country. OR a state with no employment, or not been able to attend college. I know that for a fact.

I am simply self reflecting on something I haven't been able to quite figure out.

I need to find me. She's lost somewhere out there in a trouble 6 year old soul.

I'm still looking for you ... you're 14 years behind. Catch up.

Journalism|Legend [Rest In Power]

In a field that's predominately white. Well at least at my school ... I've choosen to stick out and go against the odds. However, I've gotten very complacent with just sitting there within my major. That's def gotta change. Can't let the summer turn into a mental wasteland. Therefore I have to channel the BLACK journalism greats. No, not just Oprah. Or that pretty newscaster on your local channel.

Even though, its been nearly three weeks, I still miss you Michael Jackson. It's only right that I mention in the first post.

Rest in POWER.