Screw These Homeless People

Screw these homeless people. Well, that’s a quite inflammatory statement. That’s literally what has come to my mind on several occasions within the last couple of months. The first was months ago as I was yelled at by a homeless person in the middle of Friday afternoon five o’ clock traffic. The gentleman, and I use the term loosely, approached a woman who was directly in front of me at a stoplight. The woman kept her window rolled up seemingly not taking notice of him. The homeless man looked a little disgusted but in the end left her alone. He left, walking right in my direction. I knew I was next. I braced myself.

Typically, being the courteous person that I am, I will at least sadly shake my head at homeless people when they come to my window looking like lost dogs wanting a bone. This time I figured I could avoid even doing that if I, like the woman in front of me, just ignored him. I was just going to follow suit! Welp, obviously following in her footsteps wasn’t a successful move for me.

The man came over to my car, I saw him in my peripheral vision. He just stood there at my window for what seemed like forever. I kept my eyes straight forward. I even went in my purse to get my cell just so that I could distract myself with it. He watched my every move. We were far pass him waiting for me to notice him—and me pretending I didn’t see him. We both knew what was going on. We were both holding our ground. It was uncomfortable. I even contemplated breaking my frontward gaze and looking at him just so that he would leave me alone. I didn’t. I held out. So did he. I began to get nervous feeling like something major was taking place. I was defying the standard civilian/homeless person protocol. As I continued to sit there (light—still red)—I began to embrace this defiance. I felt liberated. Then he began yelling. Or at least that’s what I now recall—this recollection quite possible could be a delusion from the trauma of the situation. The homeless man finally walked to the back of my car (I honestly thought he was going to pull out a gun and shoot me) and then he walked to the other side of the street and continued to stare. The light finally turned green. I drove away---he remained on the side of the street. I questioned my choice for days to not look at him. I figured he deserved that bit of common decency.

As luck would strike---approximately an hour after this altercation my friend’s black berry messenger status read about an altercation with an ingrate homeless person. She had given this man five dollars---he was pissed she didn’t give him ten. I immediately called her up so that we could exchange “homeless man” stories. Yep, it was the same homeless man. Not an hour after he accosted me for not looking at him---he harasses my friend for giving him five dollars instead of ten. Huh? I was completely shocked, amused, and disgusted all at the same time.

I’m all for equal rights—yes, even for the rights of homeless people. I think that they, like myself, should have the opportunity to embrace this capitalistic society that we live in and profit form it. That being said if I can’t harass someone out here at my place of business neither can old buddy with the holey white tee. I am not making light of indigence in the United States. Actually it is something that has always poked at my heart strings. I once contemplated trying to find a homeless person to give some food that I was unable to eat. I say that to say---I am not a heartless bitch. I am just disgusted with how it has almost become commonplace for these homeless people to assume that if they stand out on the corner long enough people are just going to give them money for free. Prostitutes sell sex---and they still have slow nights. I am sure they aren’t getting mad at every john who comes along that doesn’t want their services. Instead, they may shorten the skirt a little, or get an implant or two. They do something to make themselves more desirable for their customers. Now, homeless people on the other hand are a new breed of bold. I am giving you something for nothing and you (homeless person) want to get mad because that transaction doesn’t set well with me. Yeah, ok.

Even more unsettling than the homeless mentality—because in actuality we could just chalk that up to their hustle, is the mentality of the people who have homes and cars. We, in some way feel like we owe something to people that are less fortunate. Owe it. I later thought about myself feeling bad for not engaging this random man who came up to my car in the middle of the street. In some way does his homelessness make him less of a stranger? Less of a threat? No. I don’t make a practice of just talking to random strangers on the street. That’s dangerous. So, then how would it be less dangerous for me to talk to him. And back to him---as a man how could he not understand and respect my safety precautions. And moreover, how can he (as a man) stoop to the level of screaming at me—a woman—for not giving him—a man---money. Worst than me though, is my friend. She gave this man money, and I’m not talking about a dollar. She gave him more than you give your own child for lunch money. Yet, she was asking me if she should feel bad that she didn’t give him more. She had officially been guilted by a man she didn’t even know.

This is something that I think has gotten so out of hand. Again, two weeks ago I was reminded how much so, as a woman sitting next to me (at the same light where I was terrorized) was approached by her very own homeless man. I watched her as she, like I have done so many times, shook her head vigorously, mouthing “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She was trying so hard to convince him of her true regret. I’m sure she really was sorry. Well, more than her being sorry for him---I’m sorry for her. I’m sorry that she, like most people I know, have let these people that we don’t even know guilt us.

"Every truth isn't genuine..."

So I am pretty weird. Somewhere between college and now I have completely embraced my weirdness. If someone says I’m weird I take it as a compliment. Don’t get me wrong, if someone were to tell me this in a mocking or jeering fashion I would be a little offended. When friends say it, “you’re so weird” I smile. I have two friends in particular that say “You are sooooo weird…” and just when they think I am about to become salty about it say… "I am too!” And they are. Anyway moving away from my rambling on my weirdness, I go back to why I say I am pretty weird. I am weird because I write in my head. I put phrases together in my head as if I am writing it. I put quotes together. I literally talk in my head like I am talking to someone else. It was about three months ago, as I was writing in my head, that I stumbled upon this quote that I think I will forever hold tightly to my breast.

I was having a really difficult time---with understanding the difference between a lie and the truth. I was trying to find a way to wrap my head around some really complex issues. And this phrase was the epiphany that somehow eloquently found its way out of that state of confusion. I was walking around my apartment and it just hit me. “Every truth isn’t genuine and every lie isn’t malicious.” It was like it came straight from the heavens. In the context of what was going on in my life—trying to determine right from wrong, there were so many implications to that quote. It was probably the most clarity I had found for myself for an entire year. Just for that second I stopped being angry and so willing to simplify everything and actually started to really question humanity—and what it means to be human.

If someone lies and another person tells the truth then the bad guy is easily distinguishable, right? The bad guy is clearly the liar, right? I don’t think so. I’m not so sure anymore. People do crazy things for crazy reasons. The problem is that what comes out of one’s mouth is laced with all kinds of motives and intentions that we have no idea of. So, when one person tells all truths does that somehow absolve them of the manipulation behind that truth? If you tell the truth---of a life of hardship, of your true feelings, of a secret and it’s for reasons solely to manipulate someone then what does that truth really mean? It is the truth, but it’s a malicious one.

And then you have the lie. From a young age, I think we are all encouraged to tell the lies that will somehow spare the one’s we love from hurt. We call them white lies, and for some reason we make a sharp distinction between those and those other really big lies. But what happens when the black lie serves the same purpose as the white one? What happens when you’re told a big lie but it’s to spare the one’s we love from hurt? Is there any difference? I throw out all these rhetorical questions because the only answer that I was able to come up with was that phrase that I’ve already put forth, “Every truth isn’t genuine and every lie isn’t malicious.”

When I had that very eloquent epiphany—I had two people in mind--one person who, as far as I knew, had a habit of telling me the truth and another who, as far as I knew, had a habit of telling me a string of untruths. I will never know where the lines can be drawn. I don’t know if the person who told the truths was doing so because they were sure that truth would resonate feelings from me—leaving me vulnerable and ripe fodder for manipulation. On the other hand, I don’t know if the person who told the lies was trying to protect me—and although manipulative in nature was for my own benefit. That’s the thing about truths and lies, though. There is no way to tell the motivation behind either. I guess all one can do, since there’s no way to tap into people’s true intentions, is to not look at the truth or the lie but the actions before and after it. Does the person who told the truth act in accordance with being respectful and upright? Does the person who lied act in accordance and is reckless and unconcerned with your feelings? If not, then a lie is lie and a truth is a truth, but what does it really matter? At the end of the day all that matters is the motivation behind it. Now, if I could just figure out a clean quote to make that process easier.

Can I Have It Back, My Heart That Is

I was talking to my dad last night (who I still with affection call “daddy”and whenever I refer to him to others as “dad” it feels very misplaced). I am blessed to have parents that have always spoken to me like I was more than a daughter. It’s gotten us into some trouble along the way but I have learned so much from their minimalist censorship. Back to the conversation—he said something that struck me. He said, “little one, you really care”. Emphasis on the “really”. He went on to say that I give my heart to people. I don’t know if it was the context of the conversation (this past year’s jolt into adulthood, how people are such liars, and the reality that I have a lot more painful days ahead of me in my lifetime) or the way that he said it like it’s an anomaly, to actually care, that made me feel the need only minutes ago to draft this email:

I was talking to my dad last night and he said something that struck me. He said that I give my heart to people and that I actually care. He said it like it's an anomaly. Maybe it is. Well, he's right. So, Mr. can I have it back, my heart that is. One less person to have it. Thanks. It's greatly appreciated.

Erica

Now, Of course I did not send this email. (Well not really “of course” because it would be right in line with some of my other impulsive texts/emails/phone calls). As I wrote it though I didn’t even have an intention to send it to anyone. I didn’t send it to the man I should have or the other people who I have blindly given possession of my heart. I guess I didn’t because by them betraying my trust or too quickly walking away there is no need now to ask them for it back, my heart that is. I guess they forfeited it. I guess when I discovered that I gave it to them under their misrepresentation it voided the whole transaction. Heart magically reappears back in my chest. Bruised but back in place.

I understand that I am “sensitive”. And highly “emotional”. (My daddy’s words, but something I am well aware of). But he also said my caring nature juxtaposes (my word not his—he wasn’t an English major) the majority. He didn’t say it like I am right and other people are cold-hearted bastards for not being so giving. He said that everyone is just trying to make it in this world and that people take sensitivity, vulnerability for weakness. He said that when people feel that they can walk around hardened it makes them strong. I think he is right. I think these people are wrong.

I’m not here to discuss who’s stronger, the people who are all-giving with their hearts or the people who never release it. There’s really no contest. Both avenues will leave you hurt, wounded, and reeling in pain. Whichever way you slice it at the end of the day you get a pizza that is nicely cut. I carry the belief that all people, from a basic level, are good. I don’t believe that there are just evil people out here. Maybe, insane. Serial killers, not evil, just really really messed up. So, I am just trying to figure out what makes me so willing to give my heart and others so reluctant. Did I inherit it from my mother? I am seriously considering that as a possibility. If the people that have forfeited my heart are as equally good people as myself what is my heart in the equation, an unfortunate bystander? The one causality that ends up thrown to the side because I threw it out there and he/she was careless with it and threw it down.

The world is not a nice place. It is cold and there are more frequently heartbreaking things that happen than heart filling. Although as cynical as that seems I guess the thing is people do the things that they do-- give a heart or break a heart because everyone is trying to stay true to themselves and as daddy said make it in this messed up world. I give my heart because I care too much about others. That’s my choice. Someone else, on the other hand, only cares about himself because that’s his choice. All day I can ridicule him for being a self-absorbed jerk and he criticize me for being a careless idiot but at the end of the day we are two good people, just going through life differently.

But then again, regardless of how I rationalize the behavior of people who hurt others, rather intentionally or negligently-- Speaking as someone who really tries not to hurt anyone, be straight up and honest, those that aren’t are really really---sucky people. All consideration for their ill-intentioned motivations out the window.

P.S. Thanks for letting my heart go so I can give it to someone better.

Nirmala

It was the gem of my day. I entered the spa expecting to have the structure of my eyebrows reshaped. I expected that I would leave looking fresher because let’s face it eyebrows make a face. I expected a lot but I didn’t expect the gem that I found. The gem was Nirmala, a short, fifty-something year old Indian woman. She not only threaded my eyebrows to perfection but her spirit literally brightened my day. She made what could have been an appointment full of pretenses about something real. She reminded me of something that has always been quite unsettling.

The back story on Nirmala, to the best of my recollection, is that she was born in India. She ended up moving to California and enrolled in paralegal school. She became a registered paralegal and for fifteen years attempted to find a job in that area. Nirmala was never offered a job. She recently opened a very chic upscale spa where she offers several services. She is in the beginning stages of her business, where the costs of running it are not adding up to how much money she is actually making. She is coming up short every month and is having a hard time just paying the $3,000 for renting property space. Her husband, also from India, has been a little more lucky in finding a job in his area of expertise; however, he is in a position where he is contracted monthly so there is no real job stability. Next month Nirmala’s husband could be out of a job. Out of respect for his wife and her business ventures, he takes the money that he earns at his own job, saying that he is blessed to have a job so that he can help her. Nirmala’s husband foots the bill for any expenses where she’s short.

While her story speaks to many issues, my favorite being what it says about love and selflessness, there was something deeper to this story that she felt comfortable enough to reveal to me. For some reason Nirmala trusted me, a twenty-three year old, to talk about the insecurities that America has placed on her because of her age. Nirmala attributes the recent reason that she has not found paralegal work as being because of her age. She simply wants an entry level position, yet, feels that the companies she has interviewed with would rather hire someone young.

It would appear from the outside, right when you step into this very upscale modern spa that the person that greets you has it all. It would seem that Nirmala, an Indian woman in America has proven that America’s sensationalized concept of this American Dream really does exist. She has made it, she’s the image of success, right? No. She hasn’t made it because what she really wants to do, paralegal work which she is qualified to do, she is unable to. This woman whose presence alone is rewarding, as a result of an ageist culture (America) is not allowed to do what she wants. And the basis is not even as deep and societally implicated as race, it’s on something even more superficial--our dysfunctional youth obsession . The struggle, our struggle, is how we qualify youth as beauty and lustfulness and maturity in age as death and ugliness. We value twenty year olds more than we value eighty year olds. In our country there is no relevance to someone who is elderly. The older you get the more invisible you become. It’s no wonder that the elderly are so irritable and angry. They deserve the most respect but get the least. There is a small window of being taken seriously in this country and once you get to be about fifty---that’s it. You’re done.

Nirmala cannot comprehend how our country treats people because of age. That is because India’s culture is more age friendly. I would surmise to say that most other countries put the wisdom of age on a pedestal. Instead, we put the most naïve people walking around on it. We would rather put trust in faces without wrinkles. Other countries respect those wrinkles because of what they connote.

I told Nirmala that my mother is a paralegal and she burst, “She is so lucky, I wish I was her”. Hmph. I insisted that she didn’t. Worst than not ever being allowed to enter into a career because of age is working in one since you’re practically a baby, your very first job, staying with that company for approximately thirty years and because of age feeling like your relevance is waning. Her experience and my mother’s is similar not because they share the commonality of being minority women but because they share the experience of simply, aging. A heartbreaking experience and rejection we can all look forward to.

I Wish He Wore an Orange Jumpsuit

I wish men were more like the ones locked up. The men that I interact with on a regular could take a lesson from the ones that I only see through thick, bullet proof glass. Even with a “granny glasses” thick window between us I get more from these men than the ones I sit across from at romantic restaurants. As I write these words I am unsure if I will even publish this post, fearful of the backlash that I’ll receive from the men that will actually read this—the ones that are out in general population. I maybe won’t publish this for fear of what it means about me, that I yearn for “law abiding” upright men to actually possess something that these tabooed imprisoned men have. I maybe wont publish this because once I do it’s out there in cyber world and I can’t undo it even if one day I might want to.

The orange jumpsuits don’t turn me on. The men don’t either. I am completely professional even with the ones that under different circumstances are fine enough to illicit a second look. There is nothing inappropriate going on in that box they call attorney booths. When I sit across from them, though, I realize why I am single. And it has nothing to do with any kind of sick jail man fetish. I am single because the men I meet in their supposed civilized glory are not half as respectful as these jail men, aren’t half as interesting, and not even one quarter as honest.

I am not delusional. I understand that the circumstances are totally different when I am interviewing these clients for business purposes. It is their life on the line so their honesty is probably a direct correlation of that. It’s not the words that they say; however, it’s the implicit openness. It’s the way that they talk to me. There are no pretenses. When I talk to them I feel like I am talking to a person and not some caricature that money, suburbia, and two parent homes have created. There is no ego. I think that’s what it really is. I am trying to figure this out as I type it--this is a process I’m going through right now. And the process right now is telling me that what I want them to somehow magically shock into the men I deal with is the decreased ego. I want them to shoot into these men the way they shoot people, the way they shoot up, just shoot in them this lack of ego. Shoot it into them because while there is all this banter about the egos of “hood niggas” (sorry to my white readership) they don’t have anything on the ego of an “intellect.”

Originally what got me to thinking about this came about a month ago. I had done a few jail interviews but not enough that the novelty had worn off. And I noticed a trend. Every time, typically right before the interview was over and when my inmate had probably sniffed me up, understood that in my straight laced world I interact with men of equal caliber, men that don’t know what the hell they are doing when it comes to women, he compliments me. He says something like, “you are really beautiful” “you have really pretty eyes” “will I ever see you again” (which I quickly and flatly answer: “no.”). The thing is as I am walking down the quiet, uber institutionalized hall after the interview is over and I’m all alone-- I smile. Not because I need affirmations from jailbirds but more because it’s so rare to get it from these college bred men I deal with. I dated a man for several months and if he had of said one of those lines (and yes I know they are lines) he might have been that much more closer to ultimately getting what he wanted—ass (I am doing so much tonight!). My point is not that these men are better or more well intentioned it’s that they actually take the time to say something nice. They drop some of the veneer and let themselves be vulnerable to rejection. My kind of men run from rejection like the plague.

Currently, I am reading Helena Andrews Bitch is the new black, a memoir on being black, single, and educated in D.C. one of the most urban cities in America. In a very strong passage she says that as she walks along the street the doormen compliment her and a friend. “We ignore the ‘compliments’ they chip in on the dresses meant to entice better men.” When I read that line there was something in me that cringed. How dare she measure men’s caliber based on their career choices. In my heart of hearts though, I understood, identified with what she was saying. Maybe it was the part of me that I try hard to keep hidden, the elitist. What I would tell her, though, is that the sad truth is that when she goes into her extra boogie lounge later in the evening the men that she will come into contact with the “better men” she speaks of will probably not give her one single compliment. They will look---but they are much too cool to say anything nice. It wasn’t until I sat in a D.C. cigar lounge myself that I understood that there was something really weird going on. The men all at the bars---together, the women lounging waiting for these seemingly disinterested men to drop the act and interact. And at the end of the night these silent men somehow think that they are going to bed women. Huh? The jail men, on the other hand, would have worked hard for any lay they got.

The problem, I think, is that suburbia and college degrees have stripped what use to be very suave men into men that don’t know how to talk to women. The men in jail—at least the ones I come into contact with—don’t have much. They don’t have jobs, or degrees, or nice houses and cars. Instead, they have to rely on simply their personality. So, I find these men interesting because they can use their personality and honesty to actually make me kind of giggle. It’s refreshing. I just wish that these men that are so smart could find a personality, could find a morsel of what it takes to intrigue women. While these men are in school learning what books can offer, sadly, they are clueless to the basic level of understanding of women. Maybe its because while these men are in school learning about the world these other men are out living it. I'm coming to find that what so many women label as swag is just us wanting a man to know how to stimulate us, really just how to talk to us.

"I wish I wasnt famous"

I am not a Jay-Z Stan. Quite honestly, I don’t like the majority of his music. I have many of his albums but actually enjoy only approximately three songs from each. Don’t get me wrong I definitely bump those songs that I do like but I also quickly end up switching out that album for something more my musical taste. With that said, I respect him as an artist. I more importantly respect him as an evolved black man. We have been fortunate enough to see Jay-Z evolve from a rapper to an entrepreneur. From a disrespectful bachelor to a seemingly devoted and respectful husband. We have been fortunate to see a figure that we grew up listening to become a legend. We got the opportunity to see a black man from the projects grow up and have early morning tea with political figures. We got to see what some of the biggest Tupac and Biggie fans would have loved to see from their respective idols. The artist that time and wisdom would create. We bore witness to evolution.

I say all this to say that Jay-Z has earned a position of respect. He is not just an artist anymore but an icon. As I was watching a YouTube interview of him, he said something that stuck with me. He articulated the way that the black rap community has changed. While in his day it was unheard of for a black man to reach the level of notoriety and fortune that he was able to reach, his early day level of success has thankfully become the norm. While artist back in the day could innovatively spit rhymes on the freshness of their money flow that flow has quickly become sour. I appreciated that insightfulness from Jay-Z. Jay-Z was simply saying that as a result of the black condition changing that an artist’s raps have to reflect this. I agree.

When Jay-Z spoke of the change in direction of new-age rapper’s dialogue I am sure he wasn’t soliciting them to cry on records about how messed up it is on the top, and how the money is just way too heavy in their pockets. I am sure he did not want them to thoughtlessly say “I wish I wasn’t famous.” Really? I think that is the most disrespectful thing to say on a record. Not only is it uninspiring it is so simplistic that Drake should have lost his label of “rapper” on that fumble alone. If he doesn’t want to be famous then he should simply stop rapping.

Drake’s new album Thank Me Later was released last Tuesday. Last week a friend asked if I was going to be buying it. I laughed and said that I wouldn’t. He definitely doesn’t need my help, in actuality by his own admission he hates being famous so I see it as me helping him out by not spending my pennies, in comparison to the tree limbs of money he has (again his words), on his album. I never have been a fan of Drake. I have somewhat of a love hate thing going on with him. Some things he says illicit excitement in the craftiness of his flow. Other times I just hear whining. And his voice is quite annoying.

Understandably fame is a double-edge sword and it is reasonable that artists would speak on that experience. In my frustration with Drake I am not trying to pigeonhole these artists into not speaking on their experiences. I am just baffled in how this is already Drake’s experience. He is already tired of the fame. He just became famous two minutes ago. Mind you, he just put out his debut album, let me reiterate, his debut album. When Kanye began talking about the woes of celebrity “trade the Grammy plaques just to have my granny back/ remember she had that bad hip like a fanny pack/chasing that stardom would turn you into a maniac/all the way in Hollywood and I can’t even act/they pull their cameras out and God damn he snapped/ used to want this thing forever y’all can have it back” I, for one, embraced it. We had all received a glimpse into his shaky mental state at the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards, so his newfound stance on fame was right on time.

Kid Cudi is another new generation artist who seems to have a lot of ghosts in his closet. When I hear him rap these ghosts, however, I am stimulated. There is an interest that I have in what he is talking about. He isn’t crafty with a few of his rhymes but most of them. In addition Kid Cudi is not complaining about his celebrity there is actually a line where he is boastfully throwing his fame into the faces of girls from high school who thought he was weird. Kid Cudi is endearing, strange, but he has something to talk about. I think that is the main problem with Drake. Drake has nothing to talk about. Don’t get me wrong I like about half the songs on the album, but still in the direction of depth, he doesn’t have much. Understandably not all artists are going to be thought provoking. We have more that are not thought provoking than the ones that are. I guess my problem is that if Drake is going to get so much acknowledgment for being great I would like for him to actually be great, to be the voice of our generation. Instead, Drake is saying regular things, maybe in unconventional ways, but still just real basic stuff. And he is saying it at nauseam. Sadly, I won’t be thanking him now or later if he doesn’t get his act together.

The Definition of a Soul Mate

I have been quite slack on my postings as of late. I haven't had the right inspiration to write and quite frankly have been inspired in other aspects and on other projects in my life. I have a full week ahead that I can already foresee as ripe fodder for some manic crazed emotional woman writing. In addition, I am currently stewing on messages from inspirational books, inspirational songs, inspirational conversations, and inspirational people. All to say, I will be back soon. I'm just marinating.

In the mean time I will leave you with this: I was having a conversation last night with some truly amazing people. We were talking about life, love, relationships (the typical over twenty-one default conversation) and I distinctly remember the cliche of soul mates being brought up. I don't think we ever reached a conclusion. I could write a post on it but instead I will let someone who so beautifully articulated it speak on it. This will be a passage that I know I will continuously return to throughout my life. It is a passage that speaks not to my brain but to my soul. And I will forever look at the ideal of soul mates differently.

"'But I really loved him.' 'Big deal. So you fell in love with someone. Don't you see what happened? This guy touched a place in your heart deeper than you thought you were capable of reaching, I mean you got zapped, kiddo. But that love you felt, that's just the beginning. You just got a taste of love. That's just limited rinky-dink mortal love. Wait till you see how much more deeply you can love than that. Heck,Groceries--you have the capacity to someday love the whole world. It's your destiny. Don't laugh.'"

"'I'm not laughing.' I was actually crying. 'And please don't laugh at me now, but I think the reason it's so hard for me to get over this guy is because I seriously believed David was my soul mate.'"

"'He probably was. Your problem is you don't understand what that word means. People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that's holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. And thank God for it. Your problem is, you just can't let this one go. It's over, Groceries. David's purpose was to shake you up, drive you out of that marriage that you needed to leave, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light could get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you had to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master and beat it. That was his job, and he did great, but now it's over.'"

-Groceries and Richard from Texas