Cover Letter 1

This is the first in a series of cover letters I wish I could send to employers, and obviously the angriest one.

Dear Mr./Ms. Whoever You Are,

I’m not really excited about this opening for this position that you have posted, but this is the game we have to play.
I don’t have any of the experience nor education that you are seeking. I got a degree where my options for employment with it are perpetual student and I don’t want to do that because there’s no money in that, and the whole point of me even writing this and wasting both of our time is so that I can get money. It’s a degree that I got so that I could have a degree, so that I wouldn’t be stuck to one thing for the rest of my life while I chased dreams of a life of leisure, I mean, filmmaking.
All of my experience involves me taking bullshit from other people and judging by the vague ass description of the job you posted, I feel like I will be able to do that for you in spades. Need me to get yelled at by angry people? I got you. Need me to do busy work to justify you paying me to sit or stand around for eight hours? I got you. Do you need a face for your customers to slap in lieu of slapping yours? I got you. I can do all of that shit without training me or having me learn on the job, because you don’t want to do that anymore.
But I don’t have 80 years of experience in filing documents or answering phones for a particular self-important individual or using a scanner/copier/face or being a typist or running after kids, but I know I can do this goofy shit. Matter of fact, I received an award for Excellence in Doing Goofy Ass Shit from the National Association for Leveraging Goofy Ass Shit (NALGAS) two years in a row.
That’s on my resume, which is also attached to the application that you still made me fill out with all the shit on my resume. I would like to interview as soon as you receive this application, because I’m broke and candles, food, crochet and tarot don’t pay for themselves. You have my info, call me.
Disgruntled Rapper


I Don’t Know What I Want to Do

Picture perfect, I paint a perfect picture*…

I live in the South now. Louisiana to be precise. It’s a long way away from the creative bubble that Los Angeles, my hometown, is. I thought I wanted to be part of that bubble and for some time, I worked to gain access to that bubble – I minored in film and television at UCLA, attended a trade program in new media production after college, spent countless hours, sacrificed numerous trees in writing down my ideas, moved around on the outskirts of Hollywood. Now those pages sit colleting dust, my Canon T4i that I received as part of my tuition package sits on a shelf, this blog even sits unattended to for nearly a year….


Continue reading “I Don’t Know What I Want to Do”

I Never Wanted to Be the Quirky Black Girl, but Here The Fuck I Am

Apologies for the expletive in the title. I know some of y’all still follow that raggedy sense of respectability and whatnot.

Look at the featured picture* and tell me that’s not what you might think of when you hear the phrase “quirky Black girl.” I challenge you to give me another answer.

I resent that phrase and you want to know why? Not only is it another box that people try to put people in, but because once upon a time quirky wasn’t the word that people were using. Quirky is a cute word, not quite an Instagram model, but a girl next door. It conjures up images of birds and running in fields of grass and AfroPunk and pins and buttons and pink colored hair and interests that lay in the nerd realm or a carefree sense of being. Quirky is blue skies and dewdrops on grass and a fresh spring breeze. Quirky is summer in the city. It’s spending time “finding yourself” and tumblr accounts and blue checks on Twitter.

Fuck that.

Once upon a time, quirky was weird. Weird stinks. Weird is overbites and under bites and cystic acne. Weird is repulsive. Weird is thin, oily hair and wrestling t-shirts and nasal voices. Weird is surprisingly masculine. Weird is misunderstood. Weird doesn’t have too many friends. Weird grows up and has a constant chip on its shoulder and possibly seeks authority so that it can inflict the same pain and suffering onto those that once inflicted pain and suffering on it. Weird can’t relate. Weird is out of the loop. Weird is a damp basement with one light where a body might be buried in the concrete floor.

I was weird and I didn’t want to be that shit.

I wore that shit like a scarlet letter and I tried to wash it off as much as possible. I started cursing a lot, tried my hardest not to be a dweeb, tried avoiding dating fellow dweebs, and you know what? That shit don’t work. I couldn’t stop being weird. I was born in that shit, baptized in the waters of Lake Minneweirdo. Now I’m just a weird ass Black girl that curses a lot.

So when my sister called me quirky recently, I flinched. That shit hit me to the core because today’s quirky was yesterday’s weird and pre-29-year-old me still holds on to that stigma of being a weirdo and fuck you motherfuckers for celebrating the shit you used to shit on, where were you when I was running through the schoolyards pretending I was a Martian because they didn’t have one on Space Cases? Where you ass was at in 2003? You wasn’t with me shooting in the gym!

So if that’s what y’all want to call it now, I’ma be quirky. I’ma be weird. I can’t wash that shit away. No amount of dick weed booze self-hatred and denial is going to get rid of it, in fact, it makes it even more apparent. I can’t be anything else than what I am and as much as I have tried to be anything else, this is my lane, this is my niche. I don’t want to be anything but this. If you want to call it by a cute little name, then so be it. Just run me my blue check so I can start gatekeeping this shit while claiming to be for the culture.


*Follow the photographer here:

#RhythmandBluesVariety Hour: True Friends Stab You in the Front

From the collection The Unsungs

The Unsungs are the items that didn’t fit my stands to make a collection or incomplete items, or just simple poems.

True Friends Stab You in the Front- Written 12/14/10

And I know where my real friends stand

As they face me with the knife in their hand

And they tell me that I am always wrong

They tell me why they have to bring me down

Instead of doing like others and giving me the run around

Then I tell them that I love you all


Because they’re the only ones I can trust

To stab with me with a metal blade covered in rust

Because we all know

True friends stab you in the front


I won’t take no backstabbers talking to me

Waiting to stab me with so much malice and glee

My friends are honest and in return so am I

And when we hurt someone we look them in the eye

And say that this is going to hurt so much more

Than the worst pain you ever felt before

But I’d rather have you than somebody else

Stabbing me wholeheartedly in my chest


Because they’re the only ones I can trust

To stab me with a metal blade covered in rust

And we all know

True friends stab you in the front



#RhythmandBluesVariety Hour: Thunder in Paradise

From the collection Kingdom

First, fuck Hulk Hogan.

Thunder in Paradise was his foray into first-run syndication television territory and it lasted for a good eight months and one television movie back in 1993-1994. Thunder was the boat.

I found it to be a dope title.

Thunder in Paradise- Written 10/9/11

There’s a darkness in my soul

I hear that thunder roll

You don’t even look at me the same way anymore

We gotta make this right

Don’t wanna start a fight

But I hear some trouble in our paradise

Our love is growing cold

I hear that thunder roll

Yes there’s some thunder in our paradise


I don’t feel as close to you as I should

I don’t know what’s going on between us

What are we letting defeat us

I’d meet you halfway if only you would

Things have changed with us so quickly

All the love gone in the blink of an eye

I don’t know exactly why

I can feel it in the way you kiss me


You don’t touch me like you used to

You don’t fuck me like you used to either

Every other word is something smart

I feel this hardness growing in my heart

(I have to tell you)


There’s a darkness in my soul

I hear that thunder roll

You don’t even look at me the same way anymore

We gotta make this right

Don’t wanna start a fight

But I hear some trouble in our paradise

Our love is growing cold

I hear that thunder roll

Yes there’s some thunder in our paradise


Baby when did we become so distant

Do either of us know the truth

Where is the proof

That we were crazy about each other for a brief instance

You don’t even call you don’t even smile

Am I not doing what I’m supposed to do for you

What do you want me to do

Because I’ve been out of answers for a long while


Do I not love you like I used to

Do I not need you like I used to

We’ve created a small slice of paradise

And baby you are my life


There’s a darkness in my soul

I hear that thunder roll

You don’t even look at me the same way anymore

We gotta make this right

Don’t wanna start a fight

But I hear some trouble in our paradise

Our love is growing cold

I hear that thunder roll

Yes there’s some thunder in our paradise

In the Shadows of Performance

I’ve made it no secret that my mind can be my own worst enemy. Ever since I was a child I wanted my stream of consciousness to be quiet; I even asked my father of all people if it was something that I could shut off and his answer, to make a short story shorter, was no. So ever since that time, I have had to listen to myself and myself is the goddamn devil sometimes.  Continue reading “In the Shadows of Performance”

Like a Rolling Stone

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction.

Televized Interview with Paige Matthews

Dominique Simpson has never been shy in expressing her opinion of the human condition; she’s practically built her career on it. Whether she was lampooning the current culture on the short lived sketch comedy show NSFTV, dissecting the woes of twenty somethings on the cult classic Vainglorious for five seasons, or holding up a mirror to our penchant for violence in much of her filmography, one thing has always been certain – her level of self awareness rivals that of people who’ve lived longer and experienced more.

Even more telling is the fact that after the colossal success of the epic space war trilogy Final Occasion, a series of films made for what the studios would consider pennies, she walked away from it all, and disappeared off the face of the earth, or as close to it as you can in this hyper connected world we live in.

Now, on the eve of the thirtieth anniversary of her breakthrough film American Struggle, the 57-year-old writer and director has emerged from her self-imposed exile, and I joined her at her bucolic estate in Washington state with this exclusive interview where we talk the highs and lows of going after the success you want and when it’s time to let it go.
Continue reading “Like a Rolling Stone”