I see the beauty that God has created, and I love

Armed with Color Me Badd, high heeled black pumps, Shug’s signature lipstick, a wish, a prayer, some hope, trust, and with a little help from my friends, I’ve made a decision. It doesn’t matter. What, you ask? Anything. Tomorrow will give you the chance to try again. And if you fuck it up again, then it’s a good thing that there’s a day after. God has been so good to me. I mean, yeah, shit's happened. But you know what? Shit happens to everyone. So I’m over it. Any questions? Good. Madame B said something interesting. We were singing, “Too Much I Once Lamented.” And Aubrey asked what ‘lamenting’ is. Instead of rattling off a standard-dictionary explanation and carrying on, our exquisite diva of a maestro said, “Sit sit sit” in that fun Bulgarian accent that sounds like “seet seet seet.” And she gave a little spiel about love. And yes, it was your typical, “when-you-disassociate-yourself-from-someone-that-you-care-about-it-hurts” song-and-dance…but you know what…somewhere in there it touched me. About how you don’t have to stop loving the person. I never have to forget about Willa. I just have to know that she won’t be the last. And that trying to find people to take their place won’t make the pain go away. You’re only lying to yourself. You can’t work, or sing, or do homework, or sleep it away. You just can’t. I mean, yes, you can do the work, or singing, or homework, or sleeping to your broken heart’s content, but that’s the point, really…the bitter pill of irony that you just have to swallow. There is no such thing as a “broken heart’s content.” You can put on the mask of happiness, but to really become that happiness, you have to heal. And it’s okay to hurt. You’re not “damaged goods.” You’re not broken, and you’re not worthless. You’re just a little bruised. Like apples or bananas. I mean, who makes banana bread out of ripe bananas? No one. You wait until they’re not as cheerily yellow, when they look like they’ve had the living shit stomped out of them…and then you make banana bread. Squished grapes make wine. Bruised apples make the sweetest applesauce. And imperfect people make the best friends. Because they know what it feels like to be human and have flaws. And they don’t care.