sitting here at the island in my kitchen - hungry as a mofo - looking a the bread bag and noticing nothing but the butts in there. and i damn sure ain't eating the butts of the bread. i'll eat these chips.
seriously, who's eating the butts? (yes, i realize the humor here).
#eatchips
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let me start by saying this:
because of the shxt i write - my mom will probably never get the link to my blog - but i'm finna talk about her anyway. positively, because she is the shit.
when was the last time you called your mother out of the blue and just said something like:
"i was thinking about you and wanted to call and said HEY and I LOVE YOU."
you can tell that to your mom, too, you know.
not just those whores you call after midnight. hahahaha. you know what i'm saying.
and my mom quit smoke cigarettes (and that's the only thing she's ever smoked. well, a little weed back in her day, too...but who didn't get high in the 70's and early 80's?)
so i sent her a poem and made her a video telling her how proud i was of her.
she probably cried at work and shxt and had her co-workers going home smacking their slacking ass sons upside the head like "you lazy sonofabxtch, why don't you write me anything?"
yeah yeah yeah i'm an over achiever.
so dear mom: they say i killed a man. i got the dagger back. i love you mom. keep being the shxt.
(woman and child in picture are not me and my mother)
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and last night, most of y'all know i went to a hollywood chic event in the name of fellow wildcat & all around good guy davon b. i like to think i was dressed fresh. no what i mean.
i mean - i damn near choked myself with the shirt collar, but i was determined to wear the red bowtie (the only bowtie i have since losing the others).
the boots - the jeans - the cardigan & the moxy i have go well together.
for the less enlightened:
Main Entry: mox·ie
Pronunciation: \ˈmäk-sē\
Function: noun
Etymology: from Moxie, a trademark for a soft drink
Date: 1930
1 : energy, pep
2 : courage, determination
3 : know-how
and as i was lifting the not-so-hot-anymore meatballs from the serving dish onto my plate, i heard a voice pushing out patti labelle's "if only you knew" - and immediately i needed a drink to get into the mood the vocalist was trying to bring across. i got a whisky sour - pushed in a meat ball & stood there listening.
singer: coco from swv.
side note: fellas: be careful when you're eating meatballs in public. there may be unwelcoming eyes in the corner watching you, and one of the only things more uncomfortable than you girl watching you wash your ass int he shower, is another man watching you enjoy a swedish meatball. (and banana. break the banana with your hand and put it in your mouth. do not eat it directly from the peel)
and my old fellow wildcats were in effect. the music was definitely where it should have been and EVERYONE had a great time. who could complain.
and in the words of chalie boy: i looked good.
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back when i used to be a writer - a poet of sorts - i wrote this on october 29th 2008 - honor of the upcoming election:
i'm saving my tears for november.
at night i tuck them behind my eyelids.
no one watches me sleep - so i feel safe.
i've hidden my tears in old buckets on porches no one knows exist.
porches only hold sentimental value and potted plants and occasionally glass pitchers filled with lemonade.
i haven't seen them in 6 years
but i know they exist
because i still do.
i've left a few sobs on curbs
and a few sighs on bridges.
i'm saving my tears for november.
when the sun performs its magic i put my tears in my coat pocket to keep them from drying.
my feet hurt and the lights are too bright.
and my eyes are swelling beyond belief.
and 6 more days to go.
i'm saving my tears for november
in case no one cries for me.
and i'm sitting here thinking about all the folks that were screaming YES WE CAN - and now they're NOT.
but i stand behind obama with a rifle and a vest waiting for somebody to come out the mouth wrong.
if you want to blame somebody for the bullshit that happened to your out-of-work family member, blame the man that went to bed every night at 9pm. (G.W.B. - the republican jesus)
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until we stop letting the media spoon feed us that bullshxt they keep in their fridge, we will always smell like this!
and i'm attempting to wash away this salty slave smell from my skin.
but i'm debating.
there's a part of me that's proud to be a field employee (in lieu of 'nigger').
we allow the media to make us followers by assigning us a 'black leader.'
and i FUCKING REFUSE to allow al 'the do' sharpton become my leader. and anyone who follows him is a fucking fool.
moving on:
what's been fucking me up for the past few weeks is folks' willingness to accept selling out.
what she told me was this:
"face it - you're going to have to sell out at some point in your career if you want to be heard."
what i did was hang up and went with another company.
i would never put myself in that situation.
a friend works for tyler perry studios - but i will not apply.
7 friends work for BET - but i will not apply.
i'm for educating and free thinking.
let's plow these fields and kill THE MAN.
and i'm really not that opposed to taking out women and children if they get in the way.
kill the laugh tracks.
side note: when i use the word 'nigger' i speak about ALL people.
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and i will close with a few words from malcolm:
“The [Democratic] Party that you backed controls two-thirds of the House of Representatives and the Senate, and still they can’t keep their promise to you, ‘cause you’re a chump. Anytime you throw your weight behind the political party that controls two-thirds of the government, and that Party can’t keep the promise that it made to you during election time, and you’re dumb enough to walk around continuing to identify yourself with that Party, you’re not only a chump, but you’re a traitor to your race.”
peace.
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