Not one thing.
Not any one expectational and preparatory alignment could have possibly had me readied for the emotional deluge I willingly suffered.
Prior to the visual event that is/was Beyoncé's Lemonade, I went with a cheeky "oh I know! I'll wear some new Ivy Park gear and sample vodka-fused lemonades whilst watching" effort and left a wrung-towel of dead-ass tears, fears, empowerments and blessings.
Lemonade is woman.
Lemonade is lonely, spurred woman.
Lemonade is Black women.
Lemonade is respect.
And Lemonade is demanding it.
Lemonade is we, she, they, me, myself and I.
Name me a time in music's modern history that shut down terrestrial and social transmissions.
You didn't go out tonight.
You cleared your entire Saturday evening.
You didn't even know what you were going to get.
And if you missed it?
You played yourself.
My seven stages of lonely are spilling over. For more of my reaction to Beyonce's Lemonade, as experienced live and through Snapchat, please reference the accompanying video below.
I may not always have my edges in check, but am fully convinced there are none left to spare.