Runway Massacre.


Description
,22.
Birthed by Philly.
Raised by Howard.
Advertising Major.
Fashion Merchandising Minor.
Intern @ Pastry & Chiv Culture.
Visionary. Genius.
Killing Fashion With Style.
Get Into Me.
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Real: Joey’s Thoughts.

I do what I wanna do

I say what I wanna say

When I feel, and I…

Look in the mirror and know I’m there

With my hands in the air

I’m proud to say yeah

Hmm… Where do I begin?

First and Foremost, I must give thanks to my Lord and Savior, for He is my sole means of survival, the provider of all my blessings, tangible or otherwise. I probably would’ve been lost if I didn’t have my faith.

Well… I am lost… And I’m fervently trying to find my way out.

What is this life I’m living? Why am I living it? Is this really the path that was carved out for me?

Mediocrity… Depression… Heartbreak… Borderline Poverty… That’s the hand I’m being dealt?!?

It’s so fucking much.

I just want to be great. I know I’m destined for greatness. I can feel it. But why is it not happening? Better yet, why I can’t I truly see it for myself?

I ponder this question every waking moment: What do people see in me? What is so great about me?

Okay… I’ve been told I’m attractive, cute, sexy even. Intelligent. Full of potential. Talented. Funny and witty complete with a razor-sharp tongue (I get it from my momma). All this may be true, but I honestly don’t feel it. And I’m not being humble.

I don’t. I don’t see it. As much as I want greatness. Recognition. Fame even. I don’t see it.

Crazy right?

Well, it’s real. Honest. True.

Here’s the raw truth: I don’t love myself.

Brings me to tears every time that thought runs across my mind. It’s painful. But it’s a realization of mine. Something perhaps I didn’t want to admit to myself before recent times.It’s the root of damn near everything that’s bringing me down. And I want to break free. Rid myself of this disease. It’s been killing everything that has come my way.

My first relationship. My first true love. The only man that has had my heart in his hands. Gone.

It wasn’t his fault.

He says it wasn’t my fault. But it was.

He fell in love with a cold, heartless bitch who couldn’t let go and allow love to prevail. He alone couldn’t fix that. It’s not something he should have to fix. So, he’s gone.

As much as it hurts to say this… As much as my heart and soul has been hurting… I don’t blame him.

He deserves what I can’t give him right now. The best. The best of me. Love. True, unconditional.

And while I’d hope that we could be together again someday, and be the envy of all unions, I don’t expect him to wait for me. That would be quite selfish.

To you: I wish you the best. I still love you, no matter what. We may have had to stop building our mansion for other more pertinent matters in our lives. But if it’s meant to be, we will come back to it. And it will be grand.

Damn. Even hurts to say that. I wish I could press on in a split second. But I feel I’d be telling myself I never loved him.

Can’t even even listen to all the great music I have because it makes me think about it…

Miguel’s “Do You” and “The Thrill”… Hell, that whole album.

Frank Ocean…

Sigh.

Until then, it’s M.I.A. and Kendrick Lamar until I can shake the sadness. I’ll put my music on ice along with my heart until further notice.

Speaking of Kendrick Lamar. There is a God.

Besides being told I look like him (I beg to differ. Don’t get me wrong, he is attractive and all, but I look like me… Although I did like the “you look like Frank Ocean” compliments. Weird, I know. But I digress), I’ve become quickly addicted to his music. It started out with Backseat Freestyle- in which he wrote from the mindset of him when he was 16- and Poetic Justic. But the real gem to me? Real.

It’s my therapy. It soothes me. Forces me to think clearly and critically. Put shit in perspective. I can hear it speaking to me even when I’m not listening to it.

I’m real. I’m real. I’m really really real.

I must share Verse 1.

I promise that I know you very well

Your eyes never lie even if they tell

Sweet lullabies that come with a smell

Of a dozen roses flippin’ down the green hill

You living in a world that come with Plan B

Cause Plan A never really a guarantee

And Plan C never could say just what it was

And your plans only can pan around love

You love him, you love them, you love here

You love so much, you love when love hurts

You love red bottom and gold they say queen

You love handbag on the waist of your jean

You love French tip and trip that pay for

You love bank slip that tell you we paid more

You love a good hand whenever the card dealt

But what love got to do with it when you don’t love yourself

Song speaks volumes. People should marinate on what he’s saying, the message he’s trying to convey. But I’ll focus on me.

This song. This verse especially. It’s me. It’s so true. Painfully true.

Don’t get me wrong. I like shopping. I like nice things. Labels. Looking good. Being fresh at all times. But it’s a temporary high. A quick fix. A substitute for what I’ve been needing in my life… What I should be adorning myself with at all times.

That can’t cure me. Nor can a relationship.

Closing the curtains and exiting stage left won’t do shit either. Except for get me in deep trouble with our great director (God for those who don’t get what I’m alluding to).

Not that I would do that. Crossed my mind a few times before. Sorry mom, I lied.

I may be down. But I refuse to be out. I have so much to look forward to. 2013 is really my year. I can feel it. It’s all within my grasp.

I’m going back to school. 30 more credits!!!

I’m in the process of creating my first shoe. Not quite what I typically design, but the design is all me! Let’s hope these engineers can make their idea a reality. Speaking of which, I have sketches to knock out. Procrastination I tell you.

My first car. Technically not my first (Fay, daddy still misses you), but the first I pay for with my own money. Might not be something worth attention, oogling, or speculation about the driver. But it’ll be all mine.

Brandy. Erykah Badu. Beyonce. Rihanna. Wale. The Roots. French Montana maybe. Possibly even Trinidad James. I’m determined to be at ALL the concerts.

A tattoo or 3… Hmm…

I’m going shirtless. Miami ‘12 was a fluke. I’m not holding my stomach in at the beach and the pool anymore. This body is going on display- the top half at least. Superficial yes, but it’s a dream that I want to make a reality.

Love. Well, that’s not on the plate anymore. Love of self excluded.

I can’t say what’s next. But dammit I’m determined to get everything I want. Everything I put my mind to. I’m getting it.

No more pity parties.

To the point I should hate everything I do love

Should I hate living my life inside the club

Should I hate her for watching me for that reason

Should I hate him for telling me that I’m season

Should I hate them for telling me ball out

Should I hate street credibility I’m talkin’ bout

Hatin’ all money, power, respect in my will

Or hating the fact none of that shit make me real

Better days are ahead of me.

I’m holding on to that.

That, and my faith and belief that God is showing me the way out this dark tunnel I’ve been in.

I can and will overcome this.

Until Then…

1 note
Tagged: #Personal 

So,

I think [RawPastelle] is a mjor hottie. Idk if he’s on the team, but he could get it.

Okay, that was a lot. But he is eye candy to me.

0 notes
Tagged: #Personal 

Feelings.

So, one of my mutual Tumblr followers-turned-friends (or so I thought) has moved with his boyfriend, or so I found out on here.

*Sade Face*

No, I’m not unhappy because he’s moving with his boyfriend…

Fuck that, I am…

Ah fuck it, I don’t know what I’m feeling.

Part of me is truly pissed because I thought we were friends… I thought I was being finally let in… And I have to find this out via a website. We have each other’s numbers… Can FaceTime… All that hot shit… And I find out on here… And a few days late at that. Like, I know I’m not probably the person he tells everything but damn.

Then there’s those feelings I’ve had for him coming up again… I need to let the shit go. Clearly there’s never going to be a me and he. I wish there were. Hell, just a chance to get to know him more in depth. But I doubt it. Why did I even start liking him in the first place?!? I honestly don’t remember. But the feelings are there…

Damn. Will we ever meet? I mean you living with you mans now. Even if I came to the Chi, I’m sure you’d be too wrapped up. 

I feel like shit. I’m angry. My heart hurts a little. I want to shed a tear (don’t bitch up… Don’t bitch up!)…

I gotta stop liking people. Maybe it’s time to become a cold-hearted ass person. Fuck love. Fuck others. Money clothes and me. That’s all I’ll need. Oh yeah, the degree of course (I’m going back to school… It’s not a game!).

But I just wonder… What if it was me you were moving with?

What if I was the one you got that Christmas gift for?

What if I was the one you remained faithful for, distance and all?

What if I was him?

Fuck it. Reality is, I’m not.

Hmmm, maybe this solo road trip to Atlanta is coming at the right time.

Sex.

Okay, so if you’re someone that knows me and might gawk, then please get the fuck off my runway for a moment. Appreciate your support but this may not be for you.

Moving right along…

Sex Sex Sex.

Fucking Fucking Fucking.

Dick Dick Dick.

Ass Ass Ass.

Missionary. 69. Cowboy. Reverse Cowboy. Doggy.

On the bed. In the bathroom. At your house. At your friend from kindergarten’s house.

Wow. I’ve officially entered my “Whore Phase.”

And I CAN’T GET ENOUGH.

4 bodies in less than enough (sounds like nothing these days, but that is a high score for me)…

What the hell is going wrong- or right- with me?!? I’m so damn hot in the pants I don’t know what to do. Like last week, I had an encounter… OMG, amazing, I loved it, the box was slayed… Needless to say, a few hours later, I wanted more (he was even asking what was wrong).

This is new to me…

Is this normal?!?

*Food for Though*

I’m tempted to film my next time.


Journal Time. 1O/O7/1O.

 

So, it’s been a while since the last post. I’ve been going through a lot of shit. Trying to fit so much on one plate. I’m tired as hell. I’m high strung. Yet, I keep at it. I keep going forward. Hey, God hasn’t stopped, why should I?!? 

Lately, I just have been on my 21 shit. Yeah, many people think that it’s all about drinking and having fun. But I’m beyond that bullshit. I’ve been doing the same shit since about 13. To me, this is the time to mature and stand on my own. I’m cutting a lot of dumb shit out of my life. I don’t have time for foolishness. That includes bullshit friends. I have enough to deal with.

Speaking of which, I lost my cousin to cancer yesterday. Last week, I discovered one of my close friends has cancer. Dealing with that, on top of figuring where I’m moving next, making money and trying to handle shit on my own, running an organization, restarting another organization, I’m just tired. 

Yet, I’m still fighting. I’m still a soldier. I’m still standing in this war called life.

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