Lingo—I watch this show (or try to) every-single-day. On the low, I watch so much TV, & I fuck with GSN (Gameshow Network) so much. On the long list of things I want to do before I die (besides licking Beyonce’s ass-cheek & going on Next) I want to go on this show with Connor— & we will wreak havoc.
I was chattin’ it up with Somala one night, & my brain does some crazy shit. When I try to speak, or say something my brain goes through this crazy ass cycle of trying to get out what I’m trying to say; which either leads to me saying something that sounds retarded and making no sense or me studdering & saying nothing. It goes like this:
I think of what I want to say; in some magical way, without words… A pure thought.
I translate my pure thought into the best words my brain knows (which is where my thought goes to shit, & starts to not make sense)
I try to put together some big ass thought, & all the words that are kinda off together into a sentence (which is where the studdering comes)
& by atleast stage 2, my brain is literally pulsating & my head hurts. This normally doesn’t happen during the day, but in AP Lang & whenever people ask for legit advice, this always happens (or if I’m having “deep” conversations with people). Why the fuck am I blogging about this?
“I want to kiss you on your space below your naval-et, the taste that you keep neat, so moist like— Towlet”—Kid Cudi, Enter Galactic (Love Connection Part 1) People always think this is weird whenever I say this, but I want to eat puss. I feel like (even though I’ve never done it) that it’s my calling— every black man’s calling. I mean, I got the wide tongue & thick lips thing going for me
I got a 2 on my AP World Essay. Not bad right? Oh! It was out of 9
Glancing over my scantron for my Unit Test for AP World, I realized that I had 7 questions that got down to 2 possible answers. Good job, right? I picked that wrong one all 7 times. I would’ve gotten a B on the test with those correct; also preventing me from getting a solid C in the class
PSAT scores came back today! Oh. Darn. I did terribly! So much for those scholarships/college acceptant letters/future/nice life I was expecting. Better luck next— wait.
Oh. Let’s ice this fucking cake with girl problems! Those are loads of fun to deal with on a day like this. Especially when person after person comes up to you & confronts you about your personal life. Personal life. Your bussiness. Why am I speaking in the 2nd person? This annoying fucking shit happend to me!
Ahh, atleast things can’t get worse, right? Yeah. We’ll see
Essay I had to write for AP Lang— claiming a title you’ve been given:
I’m a white boy. I don’t choose this title to name me. I did, however, select it from a little list I’ve compiled over the years. A compilation of snooty, disgusted remarks from Afro-Americans, actually. But most importantly: the name was given to me. The insult of being titled “white” is one I’m expected to be ashamed of. Angered. Angered because that’s not what I am. Well, I’m not ashamed. Nor am I really angry about it. I am what I am. & if that’s a white boy to you, than dare I say— white boy I shall be.
It all comes from this ridiculous, rudimentary concept of what being black is these days. & sadly, (yet not so sadly at all) when it comes to meeting this criteria of being black, I fail. Pretty terribly, actually. Inarticulate & apathetic: more commonly known as chill. Tack on disrespectful. Distastefully ignorant. & voilà, you find yourself a black kid (boy more specifically). & if I am a white boy because I so acutely contrast with that, then well— call it how you see it.
I do draw my lines at certain places. Ugh Damon, you’re an Oreo— I won’t take. & you may find me ranting out anger when I hear the pretty rare: Why you so dang bougie. I won’t tolerate the Oreo analogy just because of the assumed baggage it comes with. As if I was ashamed of my skin color. I cherish, appreciate & love everything about my appearance; I would not ever want to change a thing about it. I am eternally proud of where my lineage traces me back to. & what kills me is how those same finger-pointers couldn’t say any of that. Hypocrisy. & bougie; that complex is— yeah, well not me. In a nutshell, the I’m too good to be amongst black people; let me raise my nose and wish I was white type of complex. It exists. I don’t doubt that for a second; I’ve seen it, as a matter of fact. But is that me? No, thank you.
Whatever I’m called, honestly, (know me or not) I still remain the same. I like to be around a variety of people; my effervescent, enunciated dialect may make you double take; I like backgammon more than rolling dice— but for a second, don’t think that I’m trying to be something that I’m not, or that I’m pretentious.
Society isn’t ready for people like me: people who are reluctant to be bound by stigmas.
I may not be black to you, (call me a white boy if you want to) but who I am won’t be defined explicitly by my skin-color (or the stigmas it holds). I’m proud, let me reiterate; but what I won’t be tied to is the bad name people sharing my skin color attach to it; & that seemingly large majority will not define me. I may be white boy to you, but lest I remind you: that name was given to me.
In a time of secret wooing Today prepares tomorrow’s ruin Left knows not what right is doing My heart is torn asunder. In a time of furtive sighs Sweet hellos and sad goodbyes Half-truths told and entire lies My conscience echoes thunder In a time when kingdoms come Joy is brief as summer’s fun Happiness, its race has run
I might be a little dumb for figuring this out a little late, but I never really knew (until like a year ago) that Pop music stood for Popular music.
Well anyway, has anybody else notice how the typical club bangin’, party, Flo Rida music that once was pop music has shifted to ’80s club bangin, hipster-electronic party, Lady GaGa music that once was alternative/electronic music? I feel like ever since Lady GaGa, music has changed sooo much. Everyone’s dressing like GaGa & trying to look & sound all futuristic. I swear Shakira’s song She Wolf sounds like Crystal Castles. I guess it’s what people want, ergo popular music, but everything’s sounding like an 80s Madonna song… Like Meet Me Halfway by the Black Eyed Peas does sooo much (Not knocking it, it’s actually one of my favorite songs right now), but a-times-are-changin’… & Ke$ha with fucking TiK ToK-dfkmc whatever the hell it is, like what? Alright, I’m done
“Sex isn’t innate! It’s a learned behavior. Wanna’ know why? You have to keep doing it & doing it & doing it & doing it if you want to get better!”—Mr. Applestein, my AP Psychology teacher Thank you Mr. Applestein for the profound lesson
In AP Psychology, Friday, I learned the sickest thing. We’re learning about the innate things that all people share in common & sometimes do subconsciously. So we were talking about the reasons why people kiss. My teacher told us not only because it’s something intimate, & the most nerve cells on our face fall on our mouth, but because of all the things our (well, male) spit does.
Laides— when you’re making out with a dude… You may not know it, but the boy’s saliva enters your mouth & sends all different kinds of chemicals to your brain. Chemicals that:
Tell you the sperm count of the guy
Tell you the genetic structure of his 23 pairs of chromosomes
Tell you the mental & physical health of him
Tell you his white blood cell count
Tell you how his genes match up with yours
Sends hormones that turn you on (yeah, spit turns you on)
& with all that, you subconsciously decide wheather you’re in to him or not— not ‘cause he’s a good kisser… but ‘cause he’s fertile & you two have few genes in common, so you two can make genetically diverse babies Like, what the fuck. People are weird
I really don’t get it, sometimes. Buying G-Shocks & million dollar dunks— not ‘cause they’re nice, but ‘cause they’re expensive. Maybe it’s just me, but when I went to New York & we were sitting in Flight Club & Jesse & Connor were raving over all these shoes, I really didn’t see what the big deal was. $400 pairs of brown low top dunks with pink fur on the inside? Really? Just because they’re exclusive/rare/expensive doesn’t mean they’re nice. Most expensive shoes (to me) are fucking ugly as shit. Well, I’m sorta biased; I’m not really a watch guy, but G-Shocks aren’t that great to me either. If those joants were $15 (which is how much they look like they’re worth) they wouldn’t get HALF the hype they’re getting.
Don’t get me wrong, when I have the money, I’ll drop some money on some clothes… But only ‘cause it’s something that looks nice— BUT also seems like it’s niceness measures up to it’s price. I’ll see some NICE shirts at Urban, but I have rarely gotten one of their $32 shirts, just ‘cause that’s ridiculous (& because I’ve found some of the sames shirts at Target for like 1/3 the price). I haven’t dropped more than $80 on shoes since the 5th grade, more than $50 bucks on jeans my whole life, & more than $30 on a t-shirt ever.
Kid Robot, Bape shirts, Red Monkeys, Super Supreme Edition Broccoli Colliflower Bubble Gum SB whatevers aren’t all that. Save your money— shit, it’s a recession