The Miseducation of Black Hair

“Gurrl, your hair is loongg! Are you mixed?”

“Why would you ever where a weave, you have a lot of hair.”

“I love it when you wear your hair curly, why do you ever straighten it?”

“How are you able to wear different hairstyles everyday? (My manager said that)

“How did your hair get longer over night?”

I get these kinds of questions because

1) I have A LOT of hair

2) It’s long

3) I am black

4) Pure ignorance people have towards black hair

A common misconception in the black community is that if you wear weaves or perms in your hair it’s because you have short hair, straight hair is beautiful and you are ashamed of your natural texture, and you straighten you hair to conform to the European beauty standards.

Yes, God blessed me with this thick, coarse uncontrollable mane and I couldn’t be happier. I was also blessed with a black mother that knew how to deal with my hair. My southern heavy hand of a mama made sure I was not tender header. The amount of times she yanked my head to the side and told me not to move, pulled my head back braiding my hair, and popped me with comb you would have thought she was a jockey riding a horse. She would braid my hair, straighten it but never put any chemicals in it. I wasn’t allowed to dye my hair until I was 17. Although my mother straightened and dyed her hair, put rollers in every night so her hair can be nice for work, she had a laissez faire attitude to her own daughters’ hair. She simply “let it be” as it is and naturally it grew. And I am proud to say I have been natural my whole life, never permed my hair and never had to go through the transition back to natural hair.

Having natural black hair is a daily battle and I know the struggle very well. Brushing it in the morning before you jet off to work, laying down edges with a scarf. The struggle is real. Around 14 my mother stopped doing my hair and I took responsibility for my mane promising myself that I would never give in to social standards of beauty and get a weave or acrylic nails. I learned how to do my own hair wearing various styles from a bun, braids, cornrolls, braid outs and about 3-4 times a year my mother would take me to get my hair professionally straightened. Around my junior year of college I decided to try a weave (The shock!) and fell in love. They say once you weave you’ll never leave and they were right! I wear weaves not because I don’t love my natural hair. I wear weaves because it gives me peace of mind, something less to think about in the morning. I wear weaves so that I can switch up my hairstyle and colour without ruining my natural texture. I began to see weaves as a protective hairstyle.

A protective style in the naturalista/black hair world means a style that requires little manipulation, protects the ends of the hair by keeping them tucked away and allows regular moisturizing. Common protective styles include twists, coils, flat twists and cornrows. Since the majority of my hair was braided away under the weave, my hair was left alone and continued to grow. And when I was tired of wearing a weave and scratching my head I took it out and was back to my naturalista self! After going through a couple bundles of Indian Remy hair, I even took to wigs. Like weaves, I saw wigs as a protective style to my natural hair as it was braided underneath allowing it to grow.

It is time to end the war between weaves/wigs and naturalistas. It is time to embrace black hair and the flexibility and versatility that comes with it. I am pro-weave, pro-natural hairstyles, pro-straightening, and pro wig! I am anti-perms, anti-Brazilian blowouts, anti-chemicals, box braids that are done too tight, alcohol holding gel, and the conception that you hair always has to be laid. Embrace your rough look like you would embrace your natural look. I don’t always leave my house with my hair “whipped” (thanks Willow Smith for that one). I have left the house many times looking ratchet, busted and worst than Coolio. I appreciate the texture diversity, style versatility, and lengths of black hair. Sorry white people, but I honestly think we have the best kind of hair.

So who is the real culprit? Chemicals, perms, and cream cracks that change our texture and break off our hair, the media for portraying straight hairstyles and weaves as the only form of beauty, and ourselves for letting us believe them. All I am saying is wear a weave because you want to not because you want to fit in with what the white world thinks is pretty. The Corporate world is another culprit for pressuring women to have straight hair because it seems more appropriate. I don’t think my hair is more conservative, safe or professional straight in a weave. My natural look is my professional look. This is my hair; this is how God created me. I will not refrain from being my natural self. I am not changing it for no one except myself not even for the army who tried to input rules on black women hairstyles. I wear weaves and wigs to please no one other than myself. I don’t think that by wearing my hair straight I am being untrue to myself, conforming to the European beauty standards.

And for those who aren’t hip to black hair, who still want to touch it and ask stupid questions about how it grew over night. It’s 2015! Black people have had course, kinky, curly hair since the dawn of time, since the first people to walk Africa and the fact that it is still an ignorance issue is a problem. Get with it white people!

Lastly, leave Blue Ivy’s hair alone. Beyonce is doing right by letting it be and letting it grow naturally untouched. For anyone who dislikes a three year olds hair, you should be ashamed of yourself.


Acquiring a new Taste: Africa

Senior year at Spelman College, fall 2012, I decided to take African Art as an elective course. My friends told me it was a guaranteed easy ‘A’. As a graduating senior hearing an easy ‘A’ for a class to boost your GPA right before you graduate is music to your ears. (Sidenote: it wasn’t actually an easy ‘A.’ I think my professor gave me an ‘A-’ because I skipped a class.)

This class was impactful in my life because it introduced me to my favourite African author, Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche and my favourite African artist, Yinka Shonibare. This class was also my second real introduction to African culture after another course I took called African Diaspora in the World (all my Spelman sisters will know about the struggle to get to ADW at 8am.)

I first learned of Chimamanada Ngozi Adiche when my African Art professor turned on a TED talk she did called the “Dangers of a Single Story.” The title of her seminar reflects the stereotypes and perceptions we have given to things, places, and people before we even give a chance to know it or them better. You have already judged the book by its cover and decided you already know the story behind it. But if you open the book and read the story that is never the case, there is always more to the story; there is always another perspective. She relates this to how people view Africa as a continent that after colonization was full of poverty, high HIV/AIDS, mal-nutrition and civil wars and violence. They can’t see Africa for the beautiful continent it is with a growing economy and full of culture. After we watched the TED talk, our professor assigned a two-page paper to write on her. When I handed my paper in, I told Dr. Ade that I really enjoyed the TED talk and he suggested I read her books. I didn’t however read her books until 2014 but her name always stuck with me.

You may have heard Chimamanda Adiche as she was featured on a Beyonce single called Flawless where she reads out the definition of a feminist. But if you don’t know her, now you know, Chimamanda Adiche is a big deal. I picked up her book at the Africa Writes Festival in London in July 2014. The first book I read by her was called Americanah. It tells the story of a young girl who grew up in Nigeria and because of turmoil in her country went to the U.S. for higher education. While there she became a successful blogger blogging about the black American experience from a non-black American/African perspective (I actually wish this blog was real). She then returns to Nigeria to find love and continue her blogging career. This was by far one of the favourite books I have ever read that touches on race, culture, love, immigration, Nigerian culture, and the black American experience and culture. She is an amazing writer and if you haven’t read this book I advise you to drop everything you are doing and go buy and read it NOW! This book had a huge impact on my life because I could relate so much to the cross-cultural struggle the main character faces when she moves abroad. Since moving abroad to London I have dealt with my own cross-cultural struggles. In her book she was an African living abroad writing and experiencing the black American lifestyle. I on the other hand am a black American living in London with many African friends. I am currently reading another one of her books called Half the Yellow Sun.

My professor first introduced Yinka Shonibare, one of my favourite African artists, when we were going over art in West Africa and his artwork stood out to me. Shonibare was born in London but raised in Lagos, Nigeria and is a textile artist. In his artwork he uses headless mannequins in African print clothing to depict different events from the Victorian area when the British colonized Africa. A lot of his artwork that ranges from photographs to sculptures is metaphorical and shows cultural influence of colonialism. He questions what is “authentically” African. He discovers through his work that African wax print cloth that so many wear and associate with Africa actually originated from an imitation of an Indonesian Batik created by the Dutch. The Dutch originally manufactured the patterned print cloth in Holland, Netherlands in their attempts to copy Indonesian Batik designs. The Dutch intended to sell the products in the Indonesian market however it did not appeal to them. So the Dutch merchants took the products to West Africa and began selling them there and had huge commercial success. In many parts of the African continent the patterned wax fabric is an important part of African culture and African identity however even that is influence by colonialism as well.

The reason I am writing about Shonibare is because when I was in Amsterdam, Netherlands with my brother, we went shopping and I saw many of the African wax print cloth for sell in the mall. It was interesting to see what I learned about in African Art and Yinka Shonibare using African patterned cloth in his artwork to discuss colonialism and what is ‘authentically’ African in the flesh. An interesting fact about Yinka Shonibare is that he also has a disability that impairs him from walking. Half of his body became paralyzed at a young age. But he was able to overcome adversities to redefine what it means to be an artist. Although he cannot physically make his artwork, he has the idea and the concept, which he communicates to others to make the artwork and see through his vision. This shows that being an artist is more than making something it is also about having the creative vision. I have so much respect for Shonibare. He has one of his artworks on display in Greenwich park by the Maritime museum if you would like to see it in person.

Learning Self Control – Giving Up Chocolate for Lent

I made the conscious (I say conscious cause I am aware of how huge this was) decision to give up chocolate for lent. This was a not easy for me to abstain from. As many of you know I love chocolate and I suffer from severe chocoholism. Lent began on Ash Wednesday and lasted until Holy Saturday just before Easter for a total of forty days and night.

The first week I was good. I can last a couple of days without chocolate. It didn’t start getting hard until about 3-4 weeks into lent when I started craving it again. My colleague had brought chocolate back from her trip from Italy and shared it with the team. I tried not to stare at and ignore it but it was calling my name. I decided to give up and go for it. I grabbed the chocolate but my team had my back. I told my whole team I was giving up chocolate for lent and that I would need their support for when situations like this happen. My teammate screamed at me to stop and back away from the chocolate. I slowly put the chocolate down and walked back to my desk feeling defeated but knowing it was for my own good.

I did slip up a couple of weeks before lent was to end. They had a sell of Reece’s cup at the nearby Sainsbury and I brought it thinking I would save it for later so I put it in the refrigerator. Next thing you know there was chocolate on my hands and in my mouth. I had unconsciously eaten chocolate! When I went to church on Sunday at the American International Church the pastor asked if there are any sins we want to be forgiven for and I secretly prayed in my head, “Dear Lord, please forgive for I have sinned. I have eaten the chocolate when I have given it up for lent.” However bad this may sound I guilt tripped myself into not eating chocolate using religion. Similar to how you receive those emails saying Jesus loves you send to ten people to let them know Jesus loves them too or else you don’t love Jesus. So you send it to eight of ten people thinking that’s good enough right?

It did not help to give up chocolate during lent when in every store they were selling chocolate Easter eggs. Everywhere I turned there was some chocolate Easter treat calling my name. I began to think that maybe God wants me to eat chocolate, which is why he all this chocolate is on sell in the stores. I drooled a bit over the chocolate but I snapped out of it and kept walking. My manager brought the team large chocolate Easter eggs before Easter break. It was a sweet gesture but the last thing I need is chocolate sitting in front of me on my desk. I have no self-control over chocolate and he knows this! And it was so close to Easter.

Now that I know I can last almost 40 days and nights with out chocolate I am hoping to keep up the habit and stay away from it. My acne has calmed down, I stopped breaking out and now I just have acne scars that take time to heal. I was beginning to feel confident in my skin and I’d rather have this feeling than the lusting feeling I have over chocolate. My mother always attributed my mild acne problem to chocolate but I refused to believe her because my science teacher told me food had nothing to do with acne, if you broke out it was due to dirt on your skin. This goes to show mother knows best! Now that I lent is over and I can put on my Drake voice and profoundly say “Nigga we made it!”


Family First: Kofi Comes to London

After not seeing any of my family for nearly 6 months, I was ecstatic when my brother landed in London to visit me. I took the week from work to hang with him and show him how amazing life is in London. His first night in London, Kofi meet me in Canary Wharf for after work drinks, he met a few of my banker friends and then we went to a hiphop club in Leicester Square. When we left the club the sun was coming up. The next day my friend was having a roof top barbecue at her place. God must have known my brother was visiting this week because the sun came out in London.

We decided to go to Amsterdam for a few days (which is probably not the best city to visit with your brother). We were staying at a hostel in the Red Light District and there was a picture of naked men on the walls. (Awkward turtle) We went to the Anne Frank House which was amazing and the Heineken Brewery. When we returned to London Kofi supported me as I played for the JP Morgan women’s football team. On his last day we went punting on the river in Oxford. I had an amazing week with my brother. I was able to show him around, introduce him to my friends and talk about life abroad. I feel like we were able to grow closer after the shared experience of being in London and Amsterdam together. I know it will not be an experience I would ever forget.

Sidenote: Kofi is a very popular Ghanaian name and it means born on Friday which is what day my brother was born on. In Los Angeles, Kofi is an uncommon name and my brother has usually been the only Kofi in his social circle. However, in London there are many Ghanaians that go by this name.

Making a House a Home

I moved to London with three duffel bags and a backpack. I somehow managed to squeeze my whole life in those three bags. I didn’t have any picture frames, artwork, furniture, or cooking utensils. I did manage, however, to pack a few spices because I heard British food was tasteless, clothes, shoes, a book and my laptop.

I guess you can say I am an experienced packer. I have gotten used to moving around by myself, packing in limited bags, letting go of unnecessary things and unpacking all over again. Through out college I lived in a different dorm every year. My parents were in LA and were not always able to help pack and unpack my belongings. Freshman year when I stayed in Manley Hall (Ohhh Manleyyy! Only my Spelman sisters would get that) I learned the hard way of packing light. At the end of my freshman year I had accumulated so many things that when it came to packing and moving out I was nearly fined for not doing it in time

As a result of moving so often I was never able to make my dorm room my home. It never felt right; it never felt cosy. Some girls would put up lights, artwork and a rug on the floor; they would have TV and drawers brought into the room. I could never do that knowing I would have to pack it all up at the end of the year before moving back to LA for the summer by myself. I didn’t enjoy spending time in my room. I rather spend time in my friend’s room. She had a comforter on her bed, a heater, and a rug on the floor, incense burning and artwork on the wall. Her room was cosy and comfy and I liked that.

When I was finally able to find a flat in London, I had no sheets for my bed, no pillows, no food, no wi-fi and I had spent my life savings from working in college and over the summer on a deposit to rent the flat. I had a job at big name bank but I was flat broke. We weren’t getting paid until the end of the month and it was mid-September. I made a pillow out of my towel and I slept in two sweatshirts to keep me warm at night. I managed to steal a bed sheet from a hotel (a maid left the cart out) and I laid it on top of the bed. I ate cheap junk food (chips, ice cream) for dinner because it was all I could really afford at the time. Who would have thought that the girl going to work for a huge bank corporation dressed in a suit was using a towel as a pillow to sleep at night? I had no wi-fi and I didn’t have a phone plan yet. The struggle was real those first few weeks but I knew a change was gonna come.

So when payday came and I saw my balance jump from zero you can imagine the overwhelming feeling I got; like I hit the lottery. The first thing I did was treat myself to a proper meal and then bought myself a pillow from Primark (UK version of Wal-Mart). When I told my mother I was going to IKEA on Saturday to buy things for the flat, she kept reminding me not to buy too many things, to save my money because I won’t be there long. But I was insistent on making my flat my home. I wanted to be comfortable in it and enjoy spending time there. It was my money and my home. So I had no shame when I dropped $300 on a king size comforter, pots and pans, fancy cutlery, candles, curtains, artwork for the walls. I was finally able to artistically express myself in how I decorated and shaped my room. I choose a colour scheme (purple and white) and I looked into various house interior design websites to get ideas for my room.

After a long day of working 10-12 hours a day, coming to a flat that felt like my home was worth it. I am so happy I made the decision to invest in where I lay my head at night. It is really important to feel comfortable and making my house a home will always be something I invest time and money in.

New Years Adventure

Lost files: An amazing night with my best friend and blogger Shae Collins and photographer Emmanual Kashimbiri in downtown Los Angeles. 2013 was a great year for me. I kicked it off partying Vegas for New Years 2012 (won $300 dollars), I wrote my 40 pg senior thesis on The RIght to Self Determination: A case study of the Uighurs and the Tibetans (trust me a lot more interesting than how it sounds), I presented it at the research fair, I got a car my senior year (Freedom! then gave it to my brother), I partied with strippers in Miami during spring break, I graduated from the illustrious Spelman College, my sister graduated from high school, I moved to London, and I started a new job. I had some downs as well (i.e. breaking up with my boyfriend, leaving my friends and family, my Godfather passing). But I know 2014 will be good to me full of more challenges and adventures. I live for the thrill. 🙂

Photo Credits: Emmanual Kashimbiri – very good friend from high school

Let Us Not Forgot ….

When I first heard of the celebrity match between DMX and Zimmerman for charity, my thoughts were what kind of sick, get rich quick kind of joke is this? Is this his idea of giving back? Is he serious? The outrage!!

And DMX…you cry baby, drug addict, philandering punk ass rapper I’ll deal with you later.

Let us not forget who Zimmerman is! A murderer who garnered national attention for killing a 17-year-old boy who he thought was a threat and getting away with it! So I ask again, is Zimmerman really using his notoriety from the trial to participate in a celebrity-boxing match? Is he that desperate to make a dollar out of fifteen cent? Has he no respect for Trayvon Martin, for his family? Does he have no remorse? As far anyone is concerned he might as well dance on Trayvon’s grave with this behavior.

In light of the Zimmerman – DMX fight, I would like to share my feelings on the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman case that I wrote when I heard the verdict in July.

J U S T I C E. Justice was never meant for US. It was always meant for THEM.


On a dark and rainy night in late February, Trayvon Martin was drinking tea and eating skittles while walking home in a gated community. Seventeen-year-old Martin then noticed a car following him. There was a white male staring at him. Scared and suspicious, Martin keeps walking forward during this rainy night. He stops and turns around to see the guy is still staring at him. He begins to run but the car follows him. Martin stops to defend himself against the guy. The guy gets out the car and approaches him. Martin knows whatever is about to happen it’s not going down without a fight. Martin did what anyone would do; he defends himself from this unknown guy following him. He may have thrown the first punch but the suspicious male following him pulls out the gun. He screams for help but its as if no one can hear him. His kicks and screams were silenced by the shot of the gun.

The suspicious white male was George Zimmerman, a self-appointed watch guard who profiled Martin and claimed him a suspicious threat and a thug. As a watch guard his job is to report and observe. He reported Martin to the police and when the officer on the phone discovered that Zimmerman was still following Martin he specifically told him not to do that and the cops were on their way. He took the law into his own hands and by the end of the night a 17-year-old junior in high school was pronounced dead.


The fatal shooting of Trayvon Martin garnered national attention and Zimmerman was charged with manslaughter and second-degree murder. The trial began on July 10th and on July 13th George Zimmerman was acquitted on all accounts. George Zimmerman claimed it was self-defense.

After the verdict was read I was a lost for words. I was sad, I was hurt, I was disappointed. I had this hopeless and helpless feeling and I wasn’t even Trayvon’s parents’.

Zimmerman was the obvious aggressor; he held the gun. He followed Trayvon. He profiled him because he was black and wearing a hoodie and deemed him a threat to the safety of the neighborhood. He got out the car and provoked Trayvon all while Trayvon was minding his own business eating Skittles and talking on the phone. Zimmerman was the “wannabe” cop. Zimmerman labeled him a thief and stating, “these assholes always get away” in a spiteful tone. But yet Zimmerman is alive and walking free.

Now that Zimmerman is acquitted, what does this mean? Does it mean that even if you profile, pursue, and provoke an African American male, its okay to kill him if its self defense? Is it legal for only the purser to defend himself or herself and the pursued can’t defend themselves? Is it okay to kill a black boy because he is a threat? Does this mean Zimmerman is a hero? Someone PLEASE ANSWER ME!

I really felt for all African American mothers around the world trying to raise young African American males in a world that doesn’t do much to protect them. I am not a mother but how am I supposed to bring an African American boy in this world and still protect him from white America? How can I bring a son into this world if he is deemed a threat because of the color of his skin and not the content of his character? Before the trial I always dreamed of having three boys and a girl and now I’m unsure about that decision. If the American Justice System can’t protect my unborn sons, how can I? I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing that someone in this world thinks of my son as a thug, calls the police on him, provoke him, and expect him not to defend himself. I cannot stand for this kind of tolerance and I’m not even a mother. I wouldn’t expect Trayvon’s mother to either. It’s not okay. Although I have never lost a child and could never fathom the pain, Trayvons mother deserves justice. For mothers of African American males all over the world they need to know their son is protected.

Trayvon martin represents more than himself. He represents black youth. He represents every young African American that is judged based of his appearance, going to a convenient store to get skittles and tea to only “conveniently” die.  As Martin Luther King Jr., once said, “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” Was he supposed to subject to this racism? The profiling? Or does Trayvon have the right to defend himself as well? Legalized murder.

Trayvon was not the first to die at the hands of careless people with guns and he won’t be the last. Zimmerman was not the first to be acquitted of killing an African American child and he won’t be the last. I am sorry Trayvon that the American Justice System could not save you but it was never meant to protect our kind. In fact, it was always meant to fail us. America was founded on the principle that African Americans were only 3/5 of a person and used for economic means and nothing more. For three hundred years they engraved in African American and White minds all across America black is bad. Black is a threat. Blacks are les than human. Blacks don’t have equal rights. Blacks are always made out to be the bad guy. Even in the year 2013, people still think like this; racism still exists. I say that racism played a huge part in this trail because if the roles were switched, if Trayvon was a white boy and Zimmerman was a black male, he would have received 20 years to life in a heart beat. But the system was never meant to protect us and that is why African American males are the largest number in our jail system.

Let this be a moment in my naive life where I am reminded that injustice and racism still exists. That although we have come far, it’s not far enough. And so long as there are threats, deaths, and injustice to my people,  I will continue to not only fight and speak out but also be the change I hope to see in the world.

RIP Trayvon Martin and the many others…Let us not forget.IMG_6173My father and I protesting the Martin/Zimmerman trial.


Fertilizer Moment #2: Cooking

I have been blessed with good food my whole life. My oldest brother is a chef who always cooks at family holidays. My parents always cooked dinner so we had time after school to focus on our homework and extra-curricular activities. I lived on campus in college where they provided us with breakfast, lunch and dinner. I didn’t have access to a stove in my dorm. And any extra money I had in college went to Chic Fil A.  When I studied abroad, my host mother made breakfast and lunch and at nights I would sometimes just sleep on an empty stomach.

I would never call myself Chef Ali B. either. But now that I am living on my own and for the first time I am taking my health and diet into my own hands. The first time I went grocery shopping I think I brought hamburger patties, chips, apples, candy and cereal. (Hides behind a rock in shame ***) My mom always said if you can read you can cook. But honestly though, who would have known how hard it would be to go grocery shopping. It is a real struggle your first time.

I have made cooking a serious goal for myself because this is something I want to learn how to do and become good at. I am addicted to good food and besides paying for rent my money goes to eating out. I have slowly gotten better about buying the right groceries. I have brought many different seasonings and I have bookmarked tons of beginning cooking websites and recipes on my laptop. (Snaps fingers)

My first real challenge came during Thanksgiving and I wanted to host a dinner at my flat. My mother told me to buy dinners that you can heat up and to buy a roast chicken instead of a turkey. But this was something I had to do to prove to myself. I had cooked small meals for myself here and there but this would be the first time I was cooking for a crowd. I am thankful my parents sent me a Thanksgiving in a Box care package full of plastic forks, knives, napkins and cornbread mix. With the help of my friends who came in town and a little intuition I honestly surprised myself and pulled off a Thanksgiving dinner! The first turkey we made, we burnt the shit out of it. But the second turkey was great and not too dry. The stuffing turned out great, just like moms! Cranberry sauce was sweet and everybody loved my sweet potato pie! 🙂 You know as a kid you see your parents make food in the kitchen and pick up how to make the dish subliminally, kinda what happened to me. We had good music, good food, good people, and hookah. I hope every one enjoyed Casa Blanca.  

Chains of Chocolate

Hi, my name is Ali Blanco and I am addicted to chocolate. I discovered my love for chocolate when I was a kid on Halloween. After trick-or-treating I had pillow cases full of candy. Hershey’s, Milky Ways, Snickers, etc. and lastly my guilty pleasure, my sole weakness Reese’s Cups. My love for chocolate started off innocent I swear. But then I found myself trading Starburst and other gelatin candy for chocolate as if it was a drug swap. “Hey, I’ll give you four Starburst if you give me that Reese’s cup.” Then as we slide the candy across the table to each other, we stare into each others eye to show the other were not scared. Then we hurriedly grab the candy.

It wasn’t until high school did my innocent love turn to an addiction. I started taking Advanced Placement classes, I was playing soccer and volleyball, while running track outside of school. I was feeling the heavy burden of trying to manage my homework, good grades, sports, and social life. I wouldn’t get home from practice until 8 and start my homework around 9 and wouldn’t finish until 12 sometimes 1 in the morning. I started staying up later in order to compensate for my lifestyle. Instead of drinking coffee to keep me awake I took to chocolate to give me energy to get me through the night. When life gives you more responsibilities, it doesn’t get easier, you just learn how to deal and better manage your time. And I dealt with it by eating chocolate. Night after night.

This habit stuck with me throughout high school and until college. One a.m late nights turned to 3 a.m turned to 5 a.m turned to all nighters. Soon chocolate could only help but not suffice. The amount of work I had to do was ridiculous. So I took to coffee and chocolate to get me through. I remember one late night in the library while I was studying, I couldn’t focus, I was tired and I began to itch for some chocolate. I left the library at three in the morning to go to the 24 hour CVS down the street and buy a large pack of Reese’s cups to get me through the night. That’s when I knew chocolate was no longer candy for me, it was a narcotic. Whenever my energy got low, I ate a piece of chocolate. Whenever I felt like I was falling asleep, I ate a piece of chocolate. When I start itching and feel like I can’t get through the day and I ate a piece of chocolate.

Sometimes I can go for weeks without eating chocolate but they I then I relapse back into chocoholism. All I do is think about chocolate and then I go to grocery store and spend twenty bucks on chocolate.

Yes it is true, I need choco-therapy.

This is why I am starting this page on my blog. Chocolate hasn’t always been my best friend in times of need. If you know me then you know I suffer from a mild acne problem that doctors attribute to sweets mainly chocolate. I attempting to cut out chocolate, which I am pretty sure I will fail to do. If I can’t cut it then I am attempting to switch to dark chocolate. This blog will cover my journey as I break through the chains of chocolate.