First off, check it. New music project I’ll be working on for a few months:
Internet out- fourth floor lounge area. Sucking the wifi like a milkshake downloading the Final Cut suite. Overhearing the dense conversation between the middle age hooliganing tenants of 1401 south state. Inputting lies, jokes, and tom foolery between iTunes songs. Such as? “Yes, one of the landlord ladies definitely looks like a lesbian?” “I know, I know I can’t believe we’re getting a new landlord- Reuben (blerg?) is great. What a guy.” “Wow, your daughter is most likely not going to be a terrible waste to humanity when she’s older. I’m sure this being-a-bitch-as-a-child phase is going to fade out eventually! (in so many words).” You get the idea- the people here are shallow, full throttle gossiping chumps. They can barbecue one hell of a chicken. I’ll give ’em that. Only that.
So what’s left? Survived the rapture. Frankly, I was excited for this lake of fire that all the kids are talking about. You couldn’t ask for a better way to go. I’d only have a few regrets, a few wrongs to make right, a few people to tell what I think of them, a few people to fast track into a relationship, a few things to fix, a few songs to record, a few videos to make, and maybe a short story about a few characters. So why can’t I? Why aren’t I? Am I waiting for the pressure? The pressure of the end of the world. Good for the guy who predicted this end of the world (foolishness). I’m adding that to my list above: “a few miscalculated dates of end-of-world scenarios.” Check.
Some people. Am I right? Tolerance, in EVERY case scenario, differentiates between you and me, her and him, and You. I can take a lot. I do “roll with the punches” and have a (unhealthy) talent to not worry. Seriously. Unhealthy. It’s my biggest flaw and what’s going to get me to be bigger and better places. I can only think of a few exceptions where I wasn’t able to shake it off and move forward and it boggles my brain. Nothing to go into (again) and the past is the past. C’mon, one more fucking time, Charles- the past is the past. Now tolerance, physical tolerance specifically. Now, I know I can take a punch. Let me lay the story down for you- 7th grade. Middle school. Blair Perry (who seriously looked like a black kid who’s contrast and brightness was put up way too high when our 1ord and sav1or created him. Maybe God was on the beach, probably when it was too sunny, when he created him “in his image”. I mean honestly. Freckles on a “black” kid? C’mon now, Blair. You aren’t foolin anyone. Rest in Peace- I’m just joking, I’m sure he’s alive.) was running down the lane, with the ol’ leather pumpkin looking for his spot and his shot. I had a notorious reputation (except it was a secret and only I knew!) for sneaking up and being able to steal that stupid fucking basketball from any post pubescent stinker without them noticing. Mostly because I was half their height and never ever dared to talk aloud. Well Master Perry thought he had that shot but little did he know that I was going in for the turnover. Right arm in, basketball out, stolen ball, run down, shoot, and of course miss. Now here’s where it gets fun- this blalbino monkey comes running towards me, stops, and gives me one swift punch right in the gut. Now, I know how to handle when I get the wind knocked out of me. I’ve tumbled down hills more times than I can count (age 8-16). My first reaction was to bawl my eyes out, but when I cried while mom kneeled me down and smacked my hand with her wooden spatula, the consequences would be a verbal abuse followed by some more “encouragement” spanks. (She made me more of a man than any of your dads did- seriously.) I held back the tears and I looked right him, locked eyes, clenched my fists, and turned around and walked away. Of course I was in 7th grade, so I teared up when my back was turned, but that little bitch left that school (funny story- kid tried to rape one of my friends with one Antonio Jones. Little did they know she was a black belt at that time and she whooped ass. Feminism FTW.) knowing he punched some asian kid in the stomach and had no reaction. At the time, I’m sure he thought I was too small and scrawny to beat the living shit out of him, but now he has to know that I was the winner of my first half-fight. Or he’s just stuck in his mom’s basement banging uggos met over the internet and jerkin it to free porn via dial-up internet. And maybe he thinks if I saw him today, I’d actually punch back. In actuality? I’d go to the unemployment office where that chump would be waiting in line for (ticket 56), fake an application for a life-changing job with a tagline like “you don’t need to work, sign up to earn 350,000 dollars year from the comfort of your home! and meet hot, single ladies who love a good rapin’!”, steal his social security number, and maybe not work for a few years. Followed by a swift ass-kicking Charlie-style (a wooden staff and a glass bong over the head). Eh, he was alright.
Little victories, ladies and gentlemen.