April 8, 2025

April 8, 2025

It was all fine and well introducing my mother to Formula 1 last year. I bought the F1 subscription. She binged the entire Lewis Hamilton Mercedes era over the break. Our bi-weekly phone calls turned into F1 podcasts. We're bonding! Planning a trip to the Vegas Grand Prix later this year. Little did I know, three races into 2025, I'd have to deal with a drunk 70-year-old on a two-hour phone rant about why was Suzuka so fucking boring and wtf is Ferrari doing to her baby, Lewis Hamilton and calling Max the GOAT is racism.*

Stay tuned, friends. I may have made a grave mistake.

On my 4,287th viewing of Ayesha Faines' Sage Masterclass (RIP, Queen), it's finally hit me that I am not the uber corporate, always level-headed Sage but the "owns and speaks her truth" Sage. Combined with being a dominant Lover who seeks connection, my nature is more "yapper" than mysterious Sophisticate. This is fine. I can turn on the mystery when needed. Otherwise, I need to give it up, turn it loose. I am who I am.

It's weird when your 52-year-old cousin looks at you, 41 with the graying temples to show for it, and waxes nostalgic about your appearance and mannerisms being the same as when you were three? Right? Ma'am? 25% of my hair is gray. What in the actual fuck are you talking about?

Last year, a friend (who doesn't watch the news) gave me shit because I didn't like how the geopolitical climate looked for a group trip to Paris in 2026. And well...

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[*] My mother is an American Black woman who lived through the assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X. She's allowed to think everything is racism.