My parents still just shake their heads at me. I don't think my siblings "get" me. Yet, the way my brain works is a constant source of amusement to me. I look back at things I've said and crack up laughing because I'm SUPPOSED to be more sophisticated than that.
"Her garters are about to suffer containment failure. Her booty is gonna sound like Donald Duck after a bee sting busting out of those straps."
I cannot stop laughing at that. When I look at the picture again, I see exactly what I meant, too. So, besides the expression, my perception amuses me. Self-awareness has its costs.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
You're hitting it from the back and your song comes on. Then, right after the little pause, you spank all that ass and sing along, "Ssssmack my bitch up!" She turns and glares at you over her shoulder...and cums...hard.
You Disgust Me
Gangrene (Alchemist & Oh No The Disrupt)
[Verse 1: Oh No]
The pen is still soiled
I spill that oil like Penzoil
Then peel you like tin foil
The game has been spoiled
Call up that temp lawyer
Blame it on the sanity so they could get help for you
I play these bars over that burner
That lost soldier, that sober
That ogre, that boss told you
[?]
That sly niggas to loaned you
That rock and roll hall of fame material after I stone you
You a loner, I specialize in aromas
I let 'em sniff when I roll up a glimpse of that California
Then put 'em in that deep level of a coma
They rolling up on that zone
And see y'all don't want me ta chauffeur
And see y'all don't want me to show up
I come and fuck up your sofa
Bunch of little crumbs like I was dumping a toaster
Bunch of fucking bums chill with y'all heads post up
Before y'all roast up
We'll be there to get that Hope cut
Ayo, hold up Sit yo' bitch ass down
Count this right here
[Interlude]
[Verse 2: Alchemist]
Get money, fuck bitches
Turn knobs, touch switches
While I cut pies and serve dishes
Smell the scent from the kitchen, I'm on a mission
Keep the low from the toaster oven until it crispin'
Play the door while I perform, you collect admission
Needles skipping, the loop's on repetition
Palms itching, stand on the mound of dirt
Like a pitcher while I'm rubbing my money, grip is for friction
It's the bumbaclot rasta caucasian blowing wax
Limbs relax like a tropical vacation
See me in the public, same on the mini cam
Composed doctrine know it I'm Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam
Rhythm and blues brothers
Flow through the gutter like used rubbers
Chain swinging like some Noon Chuckas
I'm a criminal advocate, money magnet
Saran wrap the work, you looking comfortable
Bagging it
[Verse 3: Oh No]
[Yeah!]
Under pressure, I'm a survivor
I could throw 'em a time or let 'em expire
Rocking a fresh J's, white Tee attire
With dirty Levis, nobody flier
They must have wings to achieve getting higher
Remember, y'all the customers and we the suppliers
Cause we distributing that high to the clients with an institute
We teaching the pilots how to fly it
See us broken down into a science, read the signs
It says it's full of chemicals inside it
Like cooking got it bubbling and frying
And it's only trouble cause you niggas know it's death defying
I bare hand scrap, trying rumble with a lion
And I'm an animal, who the fuck you eyin'
Cause you know we ain't buying it, we supplying it
Sending ships piratin’ while they riotin’
Aargh!
Honestly, I'm just glad that Oscar Pistorius doesn't have ebola. The way that he keeps crying and snotting all over that courtroom, he'd infect half of South Africa.
I had a long, cathartic conversation with a very good friend of mine tonight. It seemed to be mutually therapeutic. I talked about things going on in my head, my heart, and my life. To my surprise, I told her something I've never told another living soul. I felt as if something of a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, too.
Do you know one thing I =>fully<= realized? I want a wife...not a wifey...not a fuckbuddy...not any of those other made-up, "modern" parodies of a real relationship. That's the rut. THAT is the rut!!!
Dudes don't hold hands any more, y'know? I want to hold my wife's hand. I want to wash her hair, clean the kitchen with her, and give her the side eye about her driving. I want to call in to work on a stormy morning and stay home with her watching Cary Grant movies. Sure, I can do that with a girlfriend. But, I want to do that with MY wife.
My friend said she pretty much aims to not be unhappy...which is something I have found myself doing. But, if life was a number line, like in math class, then not unhappy is just...zero. That's a sucky way to enjoy the GIFT of life, ain't it? But, people FIERCELY protect their zero. There has to be more.
Now, I have to get MYself together. Ugh!
Thanks to Natty Dreadnok for finding this gem amongst the jetsam & flotsam.
I think that I need to start writing again. Internalizing the levels of stress I'm dealing with is not helping. In the end, this is more my little sliver of the internet than any other space that I utilize. So, I shall begin again...here. Maybe, I can achieve a personal breakthrough, or at least some traction. Yes...traction would be nice.
So...what the hell is wrong with me?
Where should I begin? The beginning? Son of two highly intelligent people who had every intent to move to Colombia, S.A. to become Christian missionaries. My mom found out she was pregnant with me the day my Dad quit his job.
Maybe not THAT far back. But, check this out: They're still married. They're still thick as thieves. You think *I* am an ass? I am. I can't even deny that. But, I don't hold a candle to my father. Physically and emotionally, I have a slight edge. Mentally and spiritually? That man is a sun to my candle. My mama loves that man, though. (I do too, if you don't know. But, that's not the point.)
That's the example I have though. In all of my perambulations through this torturous exercise we call "life", my base...the most fundamental part of me...is one where a man marries and builds a life with an equally formidable partner and it is the two of you braced back-to-back wielding the sword of God against all comers.
#FAIL
So, now what?
So, now I reach for my now-classic emotional detachment and deal with the issues that confront me.
I'm too much of this and not enough of that for the women that I've met. I still crave that attention. But, with so many things confronting me right now, maybe I oughta just sit my ass down. Lord knows I don't wanna deal with another rejection on top of the struggles I'm having taking care of my children.
I'm 6'4" and about 245-250 lbs, right now. I'm too tall and too stocky for the regular rack, but too short and too thin for Big & Tall. I'm too 'straight'...too 'sophisticated'...for hood niggaz, but too hood for folks from the suburbs. I'm too spiritual for agnostics & atheists, but nowhere near religious enough for churchy folks. My entire life has been spent with an outsider's perspective with not enough of one thing, but too much of another, depending on your perspective. But, a big part of growing up is learning to accept who I am while still trying to improve on the parts of me that need improvement. I'm still growing...and I hope to never stop being able to accept my flaws while I work on them.
An essay was posted on the Very Smart Brothas website regarding the friendship that Trayvon Martin had with Rachel Jeantel. Young Ms. Jeantel was on the phone with Trayvon moments before he was killed. Now, Ms. Jeantel was clowned terribly by many people for her perceived lack of education during her testimony. While it was their job to attempt to discredit Ms. Jeantel's testimony, the defense attorneys for the accused seemed to take special effort to make Ms. Jeantel seem as if she did not have the mental capacity to understand what was going on the night Trayvon was killed. A photo of the primary defense attorney, Don West, was posted on Instagram after Ms. Jeantel's testimony was completed. Mr. West was shown eating ice cream with his daughter and one other person. The photo was captioned, "We beat stupidity celebration cones". The photo was hashtagged "#zimmerman," "#defense" and "#dadkilledit."
Meanwhile, Ms. Jeantel's friend is still dead and the heartache of having to relive the night of his death is still fresh in her mind while a good portion of the country laughs at her or insults her appearance. My heart hurts over this kid's death. My heart hurts over any 'good kid's' death. And, I'm disgusted at the way this culture treats its children. In a span of months, it has trivialized the death of a child with statements like "Sorry, 'innocent' boys don't try to beat up anyone, much less the local watchman" and then followed its callous disregard of the loss of the life of this young man with its mockery of the victim's friend.
*smh*
Shame on us all.
Anyway, I recommend that you go to the Very Smart Brothas website and look at the article to get an insight on the interpersonal relationship of Trayvon and Rachel.
