You betta work!

I’ve gone from one extreme to the next. Only last week was I living in a swanky NYC apartment and chasing after my dreams—well, not so much swanky and not really my dreams… Nevertheless! I was there. Now, I am secluded in the discomfort of my own parents’ home. I won’t lie to you, I haven’t stepped outside my house in over 48 hours. Not to get the mail, or walk my dog. Nope, I say my dog can fend for itself, herself. Whatever. The highlight of my day was finally sewing the gaping hole in the back of my sweatpants. Mind you, the unfortunately placed tear did not deter me from wearing those pants. No surprises there.

Needless to say, today was pretty much a success.

Dazed n confused

I woke up this morning with half my face stained red. It was upsetting to say the least. In part because of my initial surprise to find a blood colored parasitic splotch overtaking my right cheek. I thought the worst and subsequently panicked. I learned two things in the early summer hour of 9am: deep red sheets have a tendency to bleed when one drools on them and the freaking indelibility of the stain unwavers. I sit here now, hours later (hours!), still with a faint amoebic redness across half of my face. I look unfit for society.

Cold hands, cold heart

I am not sure how I developed this reputation at present but those surrounding me believe that I am a polite, delightfully reserved person. Never would I have thought this day possible. Yet if I disassemble the past few weeks, I realize this: I live my life in fear. Fear of what offense thing I might say. Fear of what obvious judgment I might throw around. Fear of what embarrassing moment might inflict its cruelty upon me. FEAR. It is a trepidation that only a greed so avaricious could burden me because truth be told I don’t give an effffff what fools like these think. I let shadows of my rightful nature creep out (naturally, for how else would representations of myself move about) which then cast a shadowy suspicion on the preconceived opinions. As I play rap music, I am flooded with statements of disbelief and recalibrating judgment: “I would have never pinned you as the type to like this kind of music.” In moments such as these, it is an internal struggle—a chasm, if I may be so bold—to keep the callous hip pop (no, not hip hop) and side-eye under wraps. Betch, please.

Don’t make me justified my thug.

Beauty is pain

The number of compliments that I get on this watch of mine is in every way proportional to its fantastical beauty. Just the other day, at Whole Foods no less, the cashier, who was the suave owner of great, flowing hair flattered my sense of style by declaring that my watch was wiiiiiild! Or at least, I took it as a compliment. He said it with such surprise that I sensed that it may have even offended him at first glance. Naturally that descriptive adjective causes me slight discomfort when used in my direction but I appreciated his interest. I was tempted to return the praise but I refrained from frantically declaring: Thanks your hair is WILD too. It was so silky… People with great hair probably live better lives than the rest of the world. They don’t even need to be that attractive because society perceives great hair as a rarity that forgives any shortcomings. If you think about it, a majority of the population has bad hair. I, myself, would categorize myself as the bridge that brings the two worlds together. Yes! I am the mediator that allows these two opposites to converse peacefully without inflicting churlish judgment. Without me this world would be polarized, I tell you! Society sees my hair and either mourns the unattended potential or rejoices in the valiant effort. Depends, depends…

But I digress, this fashionable watch, while rare in form but profuse in popularity, has caused me great unwarranted social grief. This watch is a conversation starter. And in my opinion, conversation starters only lead to personal damage and remorse. I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with a stranger that I have not regretted in some way. I leave each conversation a more miserable human being.

And I say that quite befittingly with a furrowed brow and a wicked cynicism far beyond my years.

Top that!

It’s days like these that unabashedly souligner my censored reasoning and my true hyperbolic nature. I possess the awkwardness of a pimply, “Teen Witch” loving twelve-year-old. For those who are unfamiliar with the masterpiece “Teen Witch,” I say this: you have not LIVED! ! I implore every man, woman and child to watch this visually stunning cinematic classic. Yes, wipe away the white crusty residue on that Proactive bottle because it will get wild.

Behold! Perrrrfection!!

Zachary Quinto is the owner of some magnificently prominent eyebrows. Those beautifully arched caterpillars are fantastically full. Worship them!

New York City, where dreams go to get roughed up a little bit

Imma keep this short since I’ve got some bizzzzness to take care of.

I knew New York and myself were an amiable match when walking along 6th Ave I heard an enthusiastic street performer singing an oddly upbeat rendition of Lionel Richie’s “Hello” with the help of a portable karaoke machine. Such fortune befell me to pass by just in time to feel the profundity radiating from this gifted, and possibly homeless, man. As he sang, “But let me start by saying… I love youuuu” and extended his arms to the only passerby (me.), I could feel the unhygienic love coming my way. SWOOOOONNNNN!