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Physics, the Shit Ain’t

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A reclamation of 1997’s Love Jones

When the tide turned on Love Jones? Can’t say. Just that it started as most terrible things do. On Twitter.

I’ll back up for the uninitiated.

Love Jones, the 1997 rom-dram-com starring Larenz Tate and Nia Long, was long hailed as a standard-bearer for onscreen black love. Carried by the leads’ sizzling chemistry and a soundtrack produced to get you laid, it often rolled off the tongues of Xers and Xillennials when asked their favorite movie.

Not to mention its…efficacy in the dorm rooms of black college students. “Come over and watch Love Jones“—predating Netflix and Chill by a decade.

So, what happened? The same thing that happened to everything we enjoyed before The Internet—see: symbolism, satire, and seduction. We sucked the joy right out of it.

Read more at Can I Kick It? on Substack

Hi! Glad You’re Here! Now, Find Me on Substack.

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So I’ve joined the writing masses on Substack.

What is Substack? Basically blogs that aren’t called blogs because “blogging” isn’t cool.

Seriously, Substack is a newsletter service. You subscribe to your favorite writer, you get them right in your inbox. Or, you use the Substack Reader and see your subscriptions in a feed.

This site hosts snippets of my Substack posts, as well as my archive from 2015-2023. You can peruse my old writing via topic (see: the tag cloud to your right) or chronologically (see: the years on the right).

If you’re ready to take the leap with me, subscribe below.

If not, stay tuned for snippets on this feed.

Subscribe to Can I Kick It? by A Girl Named Rob on Substack.

So. What Do We Think About…

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“When I’m consuming the internet, it feels like the agency dial has been turned to zero. Culture isn’t just in my mind, it’s steering my thinking. And as I spend more time online, I’m getting better at ascertaining the internet’s opinions instead of developing my own.”

Evan Puschak as quoted by Jon Favreau | Offline with Jon Favreau – ChatGPT & the Future of Writing

For years, literal years now, I’ve struggled to effectively communicate my #1 problem with Internet Culture. I’ve said some version of “I need to hear myself think!” to friends over drinks as I explained leaving Twitter, but their polite smiles and nods left me feeling more like the Red String Conspiracy Board meme—or worse, a loathsome Free Thinker—than a reasonable adult asking reasonable questions about how we spend our time.

Read more at Can I Kick It? on Substack.

On Corrosive Convenience

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Over the summer, I wandered into my local library, though I suppose “wander” is a misnomer. I planned the trip, a literal five minute drive from my house, with the intention of wandering the stacks. Familiarity with the Dewy Decimal System led me to the 800 aisle in the non-fiction section where I perused books about writing.

Despite my best efforts, I was in a slump. A miserable, grasping, “dumb words about nothing” spiral that made me question my entire identity. I needed a fresh perspective. A new approach. To be jarred out of monkey mind and get back to the business of prose. Several Short Sentences About Writing was not the key to Endless Well-Crafted Creativity I sought in the stacks that day. It changed my life all the same.

Read more at Can I Kick It? on Substack.

And.

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You are what you are, playa…

I will start by acknowledging that I am a hit dog, hollering.
 
If there is one internet meme that I loathe more than any other (That’s a long list. I hate 95% of the internet.), it’s “[x human behavior] is a defense mechanism/trauma response.” Especially when the behavior in question is hyper independence.
 
Let me, Your Resident Hyper Independent Friend, tell you a secret: you don’t have to tell me my life has been traumatic. I was there. Some people can move through the world with no memory of the moment that irrevocably changed their lives, I’m not one of them. I can summon it — and the shock, pain, and sadness that accompanies it — with a tap of my finger. I’m doing it right now.
 
I was all set to spend this post raging until I had a chat with a former blogger friend of mine (still a friend, the “former” applies to their blogger status) about how “therapy 101” it all sounds. “[x behavior] is a trauma response” is a sentiment of discovery. An “Ah, I didn’t know this about myself.” No wonder it warrants a shrug from people who are intimately familiar with their dark corners. Well, obviously, we say, rolling our eyes. I’ve been through some shit.
 
Instead of raging, I’ll describe what comes after that discovery.

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The Death of Youth

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I don’t want to be pressed about anything — least of all worrying if I’ve still got “it.”

I am not a young person.
 
Your instinct is to gasp. To launch into litanies about how much life I have to live and that I’m only as old as I feel and that 38 is the new 28 and all the other platitudes that make women feel better about aging and I’m going to stop you right there.
 
I did not call myself an “old” person. I said I’m not young.
 
As I observe my peers contemplating age and self-expression, I see the struggle. Letting go of youth means you’re old. Submitting to a sad life of mom jeans and sensible shoes or acting out a real-life Saturday Night Live sketch about old bitches in the club.

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