If I was a raving b*tch who didn't need her job...

... I would scrap my grace, patience, forgiveness, and even my sanity for one moment so I could deliver a "special" message. Yeah. I'd make a phone call. Or better, I'd take a trip. I'd serve my message on an icy cold platter with a side of middle-finger-fries. Do you want a shake with that?

I've been called a b*tch to my face. I've been called a nigger. I know what it's like to be treated unkindly.

But I respect those open displays (and the lovely folks who delivered them) more than the unnamed black woman smiling in my face while attempting to embed a cleaver in my back.

I thank God for favor and for the intestinal fortitude to keep my mouth in check. But mostly, I thank Him that I happen to need my job today - because in this flicker of time - big money might lure me to show-out like a sistah can when forced to dig deep.

And how was your Monday?