Yesterday Nipsey Hussle died. Rapper to some. Visionary to others. Father, son, brother, and friend to a few. Humanitarian and man of the people to most. We met a couple times, were from the same hometown on Los Angeles’ westside, and we travelled in some of the same circles in the LA entertainment orbit but I can’t say I ‘knew’ him. Still…I can feel it.

My routines were safe. They kept me secure in my mind even as they kept me fastened to my bronze-version life. I’d asked for this. I didn’t know it at the time of my asking. It didn’t sound like that at all. It sounded like groaning. Deep, unsatisfied, guttural groaning. And it wouldn’t stop. 

I was not-so-silently fuming at no one but myself. I’d been here before and felt the cold, dark or dryness of having pushed the ‘grace period’ mentality only to find there was no grace period. I knew better but I insisted and no one was really affected by that recurring obstinance but me. I was furious – at the injustice but mostly just at myself. And then a memory hit me. I remembered another time when one day made all the difference in the world and utterly changed the trajectory of my life forever.

She’d gone out with this man several times and, try as she might, she couldn’t bring herself to get into him. On paper, he was great. And she knew it. So did he. But she was a vibrant woman still ascending into her prime (btw…those old beliefs that a woman HITS her prime in her mid-30s are horribly misleading. if truth be told, sliding into the midpoint of your third decade signals the START of hitting your prime, ladies, and, from what I hear, it goes on and on and on from there... You’re welcome 😉) and he…well he was a guy who knew he looked good on paper.

Some time ago, I had a friend who shared a house with me on alternative days/weeks when I was in town and vice versa. On one of my trips in town that coincided with one of her trips out of town, I arrived to the house to find it a mess and all the food I’d left 10 days earlier either eaten, given away or tossed out. I was a little low on cash, tired from traveling, and possessed little to no desire to go grocery shopping as soon as I got back. When I asked about the missing food and general ‘ugh’ of the house, I got a plate of evasive answers paired with a juicy slice of remorselessness washed down with a tall glass of ‘get over it…I already have’.

When I moved to Cabo in Oct 2017, not really knowing a soul save one person, I approached it the same as I had every vacation over the past 20 years to the same locale: I LOVED IT!! But after almost a year of globetrotting from this country to that, I was nearly broke. With no desire to return to accounting in any form and with no clear idea what was to happen next…