Clay Pots and Cheesecake Crust

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We’re all the same, you know. Crafted from clay–fragile, a little rough to the touch. Some pots may get a porcelain coating, gold inlay or go through the fire and get a designer look, but…still clay pots. I have a hard time taking folks at face value because I know there are inherent flaws. Though most people behave as if they’re made from different, better stuff. Who are they fooling?

Some pots have gaping holes, fractures, missing pieces, chips and stuff. Others have been completely reconstructed. They were repaired with different stuff to make them look whole again. I’ve learned it’s usually the broken ones who throw stones at the other pots too. The insecure ones are usually the loudest, trying to distract you from their truth. If you look right over here at this smooth side I’m directing you to, you’ll probably miss that chip in the base that makes me sit lopsided. I hate that chip, therefore I hate myself.

We all have stuff we’re not proud of. And even knowing the depth of our own stuff, it’s funny how people do each other. She calls her stupid for staying with her husband, knowing he’s cheating on her. But she’s also the one secretly pregnant by a married man, waiting for him to bring her $50 and some dick. Borrowed dick. Stolen dick. This one hates everyone because her mama and daddy left her. So anyone who feels anything ever is weak in her mind. People are simply opportunities, paths to wherever she wants to go. She ain’t never gonna be happy, cause she has a gaping hole in her soul, and she keeps using cheap glue to fix it.

This one can’t pay her rent. That one is addicted to pain meds. That one over there chases designer labels cause she ain’t got no identity or imagination. Can’t put an outfit together on her own. Is this haute? It’s like Garanimals or Underoos–match the animals/characters on the tags to get a set (yes, I’m dating myself). Don’t even get me started on the people in the designer home neighborhoods who hate each other but need that roommate rent money. Or Miss 6-figure-salary-super-feminist-independent, taking care of her boyfriend and paying his child support. He’s still screwing his baby’s mama though. That ain’t even the half of it.

I didn’t finish my Psychology degree. Or my Communications degree. Or my Business degree. I have mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, the politics of adult education combined with student loan debt makes me wanna revolt, then vomit. On the other hand, I wonder what more they could teach me. What more could I use? The door is open I guess. Time will tell.

Meanwhile, speaking of doors, I have a strict rule about going through other people’s closets–I just don’t. I sit back, listen and observe. It’s funny what I learn without even prying. I’d call this lifetime learning credit. But when I’m thinking about people and behaviors and motivators and backgrounds and using the tools I did get in school, I always come up with the same thing though–clay pots. Actually, I’ve learned that most people are full of shit. I ain’t lying.

Hey, 3 am does this to me. I’m supposed to be sleeping, but I’m contemplating the meaning of life, nature of man, and dreaming up recipes like how to make the perfect cheesecake crust from scratch. So far I’ve only nailed that last one. I’m currently dreaming up my Signature line of savory pies too. Coming soon to a food truck near you…. I’m so freaking sleepy.

From the Mind of:
Tonya D Floyd

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