"What about you? What would it take for your dream-life to become a reality," my ex-roommate John asks me as we sit outside of my apartment. He drove up from Houston the night before for a rendezvous with myself and another friend visiting from El Paso. (Side note: Houston to El Paso is around 800 miles. Texas is amazing. )


"I.. uh... " Much like Joe, after he gave up being a player, I began to stutter. "I don't want to say it aloud." That way, I pretend what's going on within isn't real.


In other news, I'm looking forward to going to D.C. more than ever before. Although Texas is the greatest place in the Milky Way, I want to rep my Dallas Mavericks/Cowboys in the capitol.

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I got a writing assignment back from a High School English teacher with one critique: “find your voice.”


I scoffed.

At the time, I figured all I needed was an opinion. All I had to do was enumerate my thoughts with my keyboard and my voice would shine through these alphabetical equations.


I was wrong.


In order to have a voice, you need a story to tell. To have a story to tell, you gotta’ play the game. And as my coaches would say, “pain is part of the game, ladies. If you’re scared… go play Madden.”


Milton Bradley isn’t God in this game of Life, so I fear that my Coaches sentiments are true: “If you don’t win, you ain’t shit,” ‘cause… I’m not sure how to win.

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