Some friends of mine (you know who you are) are currently dealing with the sudden, terrible death of someone they loved. And because I am unable to be there physically to tuck you all into hugs and dry your tears, I’m leaving this here for you to read whenever you feel like you need a reminder that someone across an ocean is thinking of you and sending you love from afar.

In these days and weeks following this tragedy, you’ll probably have a lot of people tell you how you should be feeling, how you ought to be reacting to something you never even knew you had to prepare for. You’ll likely hear a lot of platitudes, empty words that do nothing to dull the ache, shit that isn’t anything like a salve to the wounds you’ve all received with the loss of your friend. Well-meaning people will lay their hands on your arms and tell you that everything happens for a reason and you’ll have to swallow down curses or paint smiles on your faces. And in a little while, people may start to drift away to their own lives because even though you are devastated, unable to make sense of this, the world keeps turning for other people, doesn’t it? You’re meant to be okay not too long from now. To start healing.

The thing about grief is that it is not universal and nobody experiences it the same way. You might think of Kevin, who sounds like he was the best of men, and you might smile—even laugh!—because he was the type of person that made your heart float. You might find it difficult to get out of bed. You may be robbed of words and have nothing left but tears. I want to tell you that it’s okay. That your grief is real and important and nobody can rush you through it (seriously, tell them I will beat the brakes off their asses if they try.) I want you to know that it’s fine to lock yourself in a bathroom until you get composed and it’s also fine to cry openly at your desk; it’s cool if you want to eat a pan of brownies and reminisce in a room of people that love Kevin just like you do. I want you to understand that if in a week, a month, a year from now, your heart contracts and you can’t quite catch your breath because you miss him so much, that this is fine too because what are we, when we are gone if not a collection of the people that loved us the most?

I didn’t know Kevin (and I am sad about that) but I do know you and know that anyone you welcome into your lives is nothing short of wonderful. So it makes sense that it hurts and that it will hurt for a long time and maybe forever, and please listen to me when I say that’s alright. Grief lies dormant at times but it never truly leaves us when someone we love is taken. It’s not something we can ball up and stick in a drawer to be taken out and felt at a more convenient time. So cry if you need to. Scream if you want to. Pour yourself that fucking glass of wine and that second one and hell, smash the glass afterwards (but be careful not to step on that shit because I know Obama is like “sup fam, have some healthcare” but I don’t want to see you harmed). Feel your feels. Every last one of them is important.

I love all of you. And I am proud of you for lauding your friend the way he deserved and for banding together to care for one another. It’s a long road ahead, my loves, but just remember that your aunt O is only a WhatsApp away and has a heart full love for all of you.

I am so sorry this happened ♥

This bag of tile grout took me a smooth 20 minutes to pick out because there were no less than 25 varieties to choose from. Never did I think I would get into a debate about flexible > heavy duty grout but here we are.

Whenever I finish up a contract or leave one without anything to immediately jump into, I usually get a bunch of questions.

  • Are you sure? (Yes, girl. I am.)
  • How can you do this? (Easily. Mama didn’t raise no fool.)
  • How will you pay for carbs and ‘fro upkeep? (With this here cash money I was wise enough to set aside.)
  • WHAT WILL YOU DO?! (Anything I want.)

I always have grand plans of spending long days sandwiched in fresh sheets while a breeze gently ruffles my hair and I casually hit “yes” every time Netflix asks me if I’m still watching. But it never really works out that way. Case in point, the first week of this break was spent spraying ice water under my boobs to stave off the heatwave and planning an impromptu bathroom renovation I thought would take place later in the year. Ain’t no breeze in this bitch. I sleep with two fans pointed at my naked, perspiring flesh.

Because apparently, I take after my mother who is incapable of rest; shuns downtime, eschews respite and aspires to be always doing something; I decided to use some of my break to make my house prettier. You’ve heard me talk about this house a lot on this blog and contrary to my lengthy rants, I actually really love this pile of bricks. It’s just that it doesn’t really love me back. I am Robin Thicke and my house is Paula. I am Safaree and my house is Nicki Minaj. I am my thighs and my house is goddamned delicious, treacherous brioche loaf.

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Look at these cute ass shorts I bought so I can wear them in the heat and feel less like a sweaty mess and more like a gently perspiring dainty feminine fairy princess

Bitch, it’s hot.

London is in the midst of a heatwave and none of us know what to do or how to function. This happens for a few days a year and we all look at the weather app on our iPhones while we’re at the office and think aww shit now, it’s about to be lit but what we should be thinking is how the incinerated fuck am I supposed to stay alive during a week of 30+ °C heat?. But we don’t think that because we’ve been conditioned to think that heat is excellent; that heat is glorious, which it truly is if you have the luxury of air conditioning which London certainly does not.

I peaced out of my job for the last time last week (more on that another time) which was just in time for the arrival of my wonderful friend who came to visit me for a couple of days before flying off to be glamorous in Ireland. I warned her that London was going to be hot and that she might want to pack accordingly. What I should have told her was to abandon all hope or maybe think about lining the gusset of her underwear with dry ice in order to keep cool.

You’re probably sitting in Arizona or in your weekend cottage on the surface of the sun thinking “this lightweight bitch and her complaining; it ain’t even all that hot,” and that’s where you would be dead ass wrong, friend. It’s hot as wool-wrapped balls and you’re damn right I’m going to complain about it. I feel like I got C here under false pretenses. She flew in Monday night and on Tuesday when we got up, the weather was downright pleasant. The sun was not being an obnoxious asshole and the breeze was sashaying through the trees in a Misty Copeland-like fashion. We felt brave enough to put on makeup without the threat of it sliding down our faces and ending up in our shoes by day’s end. We left the house and went into Central London to shop and eat sweet potato fries because isn’t that what you’re meant to do when you have a friend from America visiting and no job to trap you with deadlines and responsibilities?

We’re goddamn fools.

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Love, Mood, Relationship

Lone Shoes

See, here’s the thing. Waking up next to you is cool. It’s better than cool.

It’s like staring into the brightness of a comet. But it’s also scary, like realising that comet is coming straight at you.


Last July, before all this; before your checked sheets—navy and white—and your fingers on my cheek, we went to Brighton one day when you happened to be on UK soil. I picked you up from the airport and fatigue was hiding in your eyes and in the smile you gave me. Let’s just head to the house I said but you shook your head so we went to Brighton. You fell asleep in the car and I turned off the music and tapped an imaginary beat on the steering wheel. On the pebble beach you told me that your ex, the one with the bright eyes and the penchant for talking shit and lying, had been back in touch. She started off texting, feeling you out, and then graduated to calling, packaging up nostalgia and offering to you on a plate. And you answered for what? I remember asking. The girl pissed me off. She hurt you and so I wanted to snatch her weave out of loyalty. You shrugged; you really were tired, and said I don’t know, maybe I might want someone to love me and shit. I laughed. Since when? Since always, you said. I tossed a pebble into the sea. A few months later, I became that person and now the thought of not being that person makes my stomach plunge to the equator.


Now and again, some girl you used to trade nights with, will call you. I know. I see the frown on your face before you hit red on your phone screen. My heart turns over; I act standoffish even when you toss your phone aside and gather me and my attitude into a hug. Tell ol’ girl to stop I say. That would mean answering the call you say. You smile into my neck, you jealous?


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