A Confession

I still have no clue who Justin Bieber is or how he gained his fame.  So as a woman who was born in the 70s and grew-up during the 80s pop culture scene of BET and MTV, I am (at this moment) trying to invest FIVE MINUTES into researching this guy.  My main goal is to listen to ONE song.  But even as I type this, I feel my interest waning (seriously. my illness has given my once-focused mind ADD.).

I am now starring at my screen, contemplating my:  "Chocolate is proof that God wants us to be happy" mug.

I now realize that chocolate as a skin tone is what I hope this mug is referring to.

Starring at the mug.

Thinking of Paula Deen's innate ability to say "nigger."

Hearing footsteps on this Sunday morning.

Sounds as if my mom is getting ready for church.

African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church.

Reminder as to why chocolate people had to establish churches for themselves.

Avoiding going to powder my nose because my illness is affecting my knees and I can barely convince them to bend.  And when they do bend (on their own will and time), the pain is fierce; and afterward, I am unable to get them to straighten out to stand.

My legs hate me.

Racist legs.

Restless legs.

The onset was acute and sudden.

Overnight.

Rheumatologist visit.

X-rays taken.

Physical therapy ordered.

Wait...