Bad timing

It has come to my attention that I have a low, perhaps almost non-existent, tolerance for loitering in respect to group projects. It’s painful enough to be forced to interact with people, but to waste my time with trivial small talk and verbose tangents?! That’s where I shut it DOWN. Don’t ramble on about shiz I don’t need to know. We’re not friends. We’re not even acquaintances. We’re simply group members, nothing more. Once this project is done, I will pretend I don’t know you. If we cross in passing, I will whip out my cell phone and check my email. Yeah, that’s how I roll. Suck it! So, why prolong a meeting for an hour when it could have been done in 20 minutes? You’re not investing your time into a future friendship. Efficiency is how I do. Get at it!

Rant ovahhhhhh!

Struck gold

Owing to the old woman within, I have yet to fully understand this Twitter phenomenon. Don’t get me wrong, self-indulgence and vanity are two of my favorite qualities. But the reason behind this narcissistic trend does not concern me. What troubles me—deeply, in fact—are the conversations between two Twitterers (Tweeters? Twatters? Twats? …Eh). I can’t decipher the curious, albeit inane, conversations between these egotistical, infamous freak-shows. Think about it, the only thing that separates these conceited fame hoes from professional circus freaks is a questionable white powdered line. But I digress… I don’t understand Twitter!! Just look at this tweet/twat/twit from the always humble and gracious Diddy, aka Puff Daddy, aka Sean Combs:

"RT @UncleRUSH: We are here for a short time, the ones who smile the most are the winners, be happy and smile alot"

Wise words, Diddy. But what the heck does RT mean?? Is Diddy passing some knowledge on to Uncle Rush or is it the other way around?? Ugh! Technology these days… But, thanks to a few gems Twitter is tolerable, perhaps even entertaining. John Mayer flaunts his witty humor with comments like,

"It's Fashion Week in NYC. Where are all the Talbot's models hanging out?"

I can’t hate on that! Perhaps because I grew up rockin the Talbots look, hmmmm. Best yet, Jessica Simpson showcases her brilliance with this harrowing tale about her dog:

"My heart is broken because a coyote took my precious Daisy right in front of our eyes. HORROR!"

A coyote?! What in the hell kind of Looney Tunes shiz is that? She even posted a reward, in which no doubt (!) the Roadrunner will be interested. Greedy betch!

HAGS

I spent the day willingly standing in the front lines of Activities Day, which turns out is the warm hued light igniting the night for the buzzing college populace. With no shelter to take, I depended on my hoodrat appearance as my only defense. Normally, I like to have more in my misanthrope arsenal when I venture into society. Yet… Bombarded by the enemy—the friendly, outgoing folk—and interrogated, I sacrificed words of superficiality and knew of no escape. Faint acquaintances lightly strolled through what was my nightmare. They approached me as a kind gesture—I did not see it as such. Forceful and hollow felt the conversations, each party desperately searching for a follow-up question to fan the conversation flames. No, I don’t care about what classes you’re taking! Oh you had a good summer, did you?? Are you sure it wasn’t just ok? No? So, it was good? Ok. So glad we clarified that. Now I can sleep at night.

Recognize this: I don’t care about dumb shiz!

A castle in the sky, one mile high

“Ah New York New York big city of dreams

And everything in New York ain't always what it seems"

For a quick second I thought I had my future planned out, engraved in a contractually obligated stone. Rejection hit hard, as it does when it malignantly resides in your blind spot. Your pride feels tender, even raw. The sudden declination scrapes away the fragile layer of confidence and success that enveloped the core. It’s never too thick a skin when confronted with such an attack that mocks your own reflection.

Still and all, the calluses, grown out of personal triumphs, will once again nurture my ego. Life goes on. And so it goes. And so it goes.

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.