I Do Not Have A Diary

Negro, Please

 

I met a very intelligent old man this weekend. A doctor of history and latin, this man was pretty much a walking encyclopedia. I spent much of the weekend learning about all types of stuff that I won’t remember, but was cool in the moment. Dr. SmartyPants was good in my book, until he looked at me and let the most offensive sentence cascade out of his mouth. I was sitting on the couch, minding my business, writing.

“Oh, I see you’re writing in your diary there.”

*record comes to a screeching halt*

I don’t think I’ve given an eye as evil as the one that little Mr. I Know Everything About Everything recieved in that moment. This look was followed by an icy “This is Not a diary. I don’t have a diary.” What I really wanted to say:

Bruh, I’m 25 years old, and I write. I write everything. Notes, plans, thoughts. I write everywhere. Any paper at any time that I have words that need to be written will work for me. I prefer a notebook. I am currently writing in a notebook. This notebook is not pink, or purple or decorated with some freakishly feminine design. This book that I’m writing in does not have a little lock, nor do I need a key to access the pages. I’m a grown ass woman. I do not have a diary. Fall back. 

 

I write. It’s what I do, and a big part of who I am. It keeps me organized. It has kept me sane at times. It has prevented more bad decisions than I can count. It has assisted in the birth of ideas. I do not have a diary. I have a little extensions of myself.

 

The Bonnaroo Experience Part 1: The Journey

A few weeks ago, I went to Bonnaroo. What is Bonnaroo? This simplest way to describe it is modern day Woodstock. Four days of camping out and walking from stage to stage to take in great music. It looks a little something like this:

huge farm full of people

Yes, I wanted to go. Yes, I was aware that I would be outside for almost a week before I signed up. No, I did not go alone. My buddy Jada was excited to be my partner in crime for this adventure. And let me tell ya, it was and Ad Ven Ture.

I’ll start with our journey to Manchester, TN.

My buddy (that’s what I call her in real life) lives in DC, and I live about an hour away from the 700 acre farm that is Bonnaroo. The plan was for her to fly here, and we head to the farm. And them my car died in The Middle Of Nowhere, TN while I was at work, a week before the festival. That’s another story. Looking back, I’m pretty sure this was the universe’s first attempt at trying to keep us from making it to Manchester. So I signed over my first born to pay for a rental. Why did it cost so much? Because the wonderful state of Tennessee schedules the Country Music Festival in Nashville on the the same weekend of Bonnaroo and the city is guaranteed to sell out of rental cars. Just wrong. Evil. The wound is still fresh, can’t you tell?

Fast forward past the rental car fiasco, it’s the morning of our trip. I wake up bright and early, ready to hit the road to pick up my buddy. I get a call. “Hey buddy I missed my flight. I’m going to see if there’s a later one. I’ll keep you posted.” Keeping me posted resulted us both thinking that all hope was lost. She wouldn’t be able to get to TN for less than all of her extremities, and there was no way that I was going to Bonnaroo alone. Enter, Jada’s mom who suggested her flying into Atlanta. It’s only a few hours from Nashville, and since I was already up a prepared to drive, she could hop on the plane and I’d meet her there. I’m pretty sure I heard the dramatic Hallelujah choir.

Four hours later, and I’m at Hartsfield-Jackson picking up my buddy. A pit stop at Walmart was necessary for snacks and water before hitting the road. We were on our way!! …And then we drove passed a Sonic. There was no way that we could just keep going, we were forced to turn around. Our lust for a slushie got us stuck in the parking lot of Creflo Dollar’s “church”.

The journey continues in the next post!