Saturday, August 26, 2017

7 Years Ago

Don't take it personal if I speak ill of your name
Hate, then sad, is the my favorite method of rhythm
You might as well accept the full brunt of the blame
In this world, Only one guy carries the burden with him
You might not know this, but I happened to love you
From the moment you made your appearance known
But my way of displaying my constant thinking of you
Was to fake my disdain for you as obvious and full blown
It was earlier and too late. I was gay, you were straight.
Even that didn't stop the roller coaster of feelings
Hearing you fornicate made me scornfully irate
Wiser me would've green lit the much needed healing

Immaturity was the winner of the lonely hearts dinner
All that displayed was meanness and spite
Never knowing this lashing out was pain that burned inner
Yeah, the actions were the wrong, but being mad felt so right
I kept hoping and hoping one day he'd escape "her"
And this would be our chance to get close
It sucks to have someone so perfect on paper
Lack the one thing that matters the most

Wanting what I could never have didn't make me want it less
It simply allowed denial to become pillows of false hope
Because a no wasn't a no and a "maybe" was a "yes"
The ambiguity allowed the desire that relief to cope
Remember that blame? Yes, I put some on you
You can play dumb, but you played your part
From your actions, my love was something you knew
That enabled you to toy with my twisted heart
All the times I quit you and then came running back
At the instant you called and said you needed me
Only to get there and realize it was all an act
For a role that should have long succeeded me

And your "perfect" was not perfect by any real stretch
Especially seeing the cruel ways that you treated "her"
I wouldn't call it a dog, because your dog didn't fetch
You made it clear had no respect or wanted to be with her
The way you talked about her made me search down below
"So maybe he's awakening to deep seated emotions"
You'd think "her" after "Her" would have let me know
The only "deep" was the levels of my sad devotion
For a long time, communication came crashing to a halt
Something you said you never quite understood
I stressed that the falling out was completely my fault
And that the head space I occupied was no good.

You said we were friends, and to never lose touch
I agreed, and then we both said goodbye
A warm gesture on your part that meant so much
Each interaction felt like this elaborate lie
Though it wasn't a lie, so much as not the full truth
The words couldn't form a real response
Because I desperately avoided the feelings of my youth
Coming rushing back to me all at once

Rejection and sorrow, and praying that tomorrow
Would be better, but it only stayed the same
Looking in the mirror only made things clearer
That this lonely, I only had myself to blame

From the moment you smiled and I heard your voice
It was over and you were the one for me
After everything revealed, I still made the choice
As if you were the only man, or none for me
How many times to be told to know your worth
Before those words are ingrained into your mind
Seeking validation and love to the ends of the earth
When it was right there in your own love to find
Not in love with you, but with a version of you
That was crafted and molded from a fantasy
It was completely unfair to put those demands on you
And then fault you for not being that man to me

Today, we are friends, and as friends we'll remain
Honesty at the forefront of my sayings this time
Unrequited love is a boil long overdue to drain
The longer the wait, the heavier the grime
No, there's no love on the roster, there's some playing to do
But I know that I'll find him one day
He'll be kind, and wonderful, and mines to woo
Most importantly, he'll be FUCKING GAY!!!!















Saturday, August 19, 2017

Marks

He didn't love himself. He was selfish
Tore his body down better than arsenic
Hurting party sobs that made everyone else wish
He would stuff himself silent or just fall sick
There's no staring in mirrors when Mirrors stare back
Echoing torments of the days past reviled
Highlighting the scars that words so often lack
He looks different, but still resembles his youth
They stay on him, refusing to let go
From the hearts of wisdom, be it age or a tooth
To refuse all reminders that still let him know
Feelings of lightness from years of the heavy
Decisions made easier by the physical ailing
Consumption is the comfort, the room is the levee
Keeping out the attempts that ward off the failing
As he scowls at his reflection of pains long behind him
With the jade of his weariness refusing to let him see
His scars light the trail for the pain to always find him
The man he is today and the more he used to be 
Pride is abundant as he looks on his trek
The results of fruits long labored and fought
But his journey produced quite the visual wreck
Old wounds barely healed while others don't clot
Next stage in life deal with contemplation
Does he hide them or embrace what they mean
Are they stripes of a man's pure dedication
Or the flaws that are wished into unseen
A wrong that was righted with the drive of will
Steady moving so as to never again fall down
Stakes are way too high and he won't go until
Those monsters are driven from his town
His choice has been made and his ink still dries
The scars become canvases of emotional art
With the ugliness contained, he adjusts his eyes
To continue on a path that was never too late to start.
Never look at imperfections as your way of knowing
If someone is deserving of what is there to give
Some scars tell a story of a self-love ever growing
And hurt that fueled a passionate fervor to finally live.









Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Long Rant: Why Your Feelings Don't Matter

People joke about all kinds of things, people, events, disabilities, blah, blah, blah. We laugh, we get offended, but the underlying problem is that when we get offended, we can sometimes attempt to project our own discomfort with subject matters onto others and attempt to impose our own morality onto others, and because of jokes. 

Yeah, some jokes are insensitive, offensive, and downright cruel. But, these kinds of jokes are necessary to test boundaries as well our own discomfort at finding humor in truly horrendous events. You're not a terrible person if you laugh at a 9/11 joke, but you are a terrible person if you laughed on 9/11. You're not a terrible person for laughing at an AIDS joke, but you are a terrible person for laughing at a person dying of AIDS. Rape is never funny...rape jokes? Depends on the joke.

The growing social justice culture is like a vine slowly wrapping itself around free speech, choking the life out of free expression in an attempt to police anything spoken and put it in a neat folder of "Acceptable" and "Unacceptable." The problem becomes when individual groups decide that certain words and terms are offensive and hate speech, and thus attempt to disrupt societal narratives in an attempt to change reality based on their own feelings and subjective perspectives. And to that I say this: Fuck Your Feelings!!

Yes. Fuck your feelings, fuck my feelings, and fuck anyone else's feelings. We're all adults. You don't get to tell anyone what they can or can't say, and guess what? In your zeal to blot out bad words and "hate speech", you're not actually doing anything but allowing the real hateful people in this world to simply mask their vitriol and express it in other ways, because not every racist says "nigger" and not every homophobe says "faggot." 

All too often, I see this overly sensitive subset of society trying to tell me and others what we should be offended, what shouldn't be joked about, and what should matter to everyone. But, what I don't see is any real cohesive message nor any consistency from these individuals. Yeah, you'll be offended over racism, but let a black person be a Republican and you join in with the "Uncle Tom", "Coon", and "House Nigger" taunts. Feminism left and right, until a woman says she isn't down with your cause, and then you come out with every derogatory name in the book for her. 

Why do your feelings matter?  Why should we or the rest of the world take pause because something uttered caused you discomfort? I'm sorry, but part of living among the rest of us means that you will encounter things that run contrary to what you believe or how you think and feel. The easy solution to that is to surround yourself with like minded individuals and create your own harmonious utopia of clones that always agree on everything.

And when it comes to facts, your feelings definitely do not matter. I don't know when the left became these fundamentalists that scoff at reality in lieu of what feels good, but when that happened, I had to distance myself from that subset of liberalism. It is wholly unacceptable to promote things that are simply not true as some kind of guise of being accepting and promoting tolerance. Believe or not, you can be sympathetic to a group or cause while pointing out things about them that are objectively true or not true.

You know what you don't do? You don't create this Orwellian principle that any speech you deem hateful or offensive is subject to stifling and suppression because it might "harm" someone. Words don't harm... actions do. I can just as easily deem your words offensive and hateful and attempt to have them suppressed, but of course you would scoff at that, wouldn't you? 

If I still felt the way I did at 21 the way I do now at 31, I'd be out there with posters and picket signs, too, crying and bitching about how Milo Yiannopoulus is bringing hate and violence to America all while punching people and throwing urine at people I disagree with (I probably wouldn't even have the balls to leave my room). But, luckily, I realize that words, even bad ones, are just that, words. I learned to take a joke, I learned to take criticism, and I learned to block out truly vitriolic nonsense. 

I implore these new generations to learn to do the same, because they are going to learn the hard way that the majority of society is just trying to exist in this crazy world and not really giving a fuck about manspreading, or mansplaining, or "white privilege", or "Oscars so black". I never told my grandmother about the crap I endured at school because I knew she didn't really care the way I wanted her to. Instead, I stayed in my room and created my own little world to block out the bullshit I had to deal with both at school and at home.

Inadvertently, this prepared me for the world my grandmother claimed I was not ready for, because it taught me how to close out hate and vitriol, while still existing in a place from which I could not wait to remove myself. Slowly, but surely, I learned that adversity was everywhere, and that running from dissension was easier said than done. So, instead, I took it head on and it actually inspired critical thinking out of me. It was what led me to becoming an atheist, what led me to not giving a fuck who knew I was gay, and what eventually led me to leave behind the regressive narrative that is slowly engulfing the liberal left. 

Being mad didn't stop people from saying hurtful things to me, and letting them know how mad I was didn't change their feelings. Sometimes, people should take your feelings about something into consideration, and sometimes your feelings just plain don't matter. In any case, things are going to be said that you don't like. Jokes are going to be told that you find offensive. Truths are going to be said about you that you are not ready to hear. You make your stink, you scoff, you scowl, but in the end, you've made it out of the other end unscathed and you will move on with your life. You don't start online witch hunts, trying to get people's personal information to make death threats, SWAT them, or to contact their employers in an attempt to get them fired from their place of work. 

As callous as this sounds, this can simply be whittled down to learning how to take a fucking joke or just letting stupid people be stupid. We're not all the same, and that's what is so great about humanity. Things that make some laugh make others vomit. Things that some find beautiful other find abhorrent. We are empathetic creatures that don't set out to hurt each other maliciously, but often realize that some opinions and beliefs need to be challenged, regardless of how some feel about them.

That's life. Fuck your feelings, man. Fuck. Your. Feelings.

Okay, I'm done. 

Friday, January 20, 2017

Separates, Chapter 1: Late Nights

Geneva stood over a simmering pot, sighing listlessly while halfheartedly stirring clumps of brown rice. She stared over at the balcony door and out over at the Seattle skyline, wafting in the white noise of blaring horns and loud patrons happily shrieking as they made their way downtown to partake in the Friday nightlife. Coltrane played lightly in the background, faintly coming through to Geneva as she sullenly stood over two boiling pots, lightly patting the beads of sweat from her brow as the steam rose. The smell of baked chicken could be smelled all throughout the sky-level loft as it cooled in the oven. 

Unfortunately, her vetting of culinary prowess was not merely an unprovoked display of affection for her longtime husband Roman, but was also an olive branch of sorts. Their fighting had intensified over the past months, due in part to Geneva's long hours away from home and Roman's sudden indifference to their lack of sexual activity. Her suspicions were deeply aroused by his new regimen: different soap, a new cologne, and a makeover that would make even the most experienced editor at GQ stop him on the streets and ask for tips. What was it all for? They barely ever saw each other, so why was he suddenly breaking out the suit-and-tie look?

The doorknob begins to jiggle in a familiar manner, snapping Geneva out of her daze. Either Roman was a creature of habit, or he genuinely forgot that every night - for the past 11 years - that if Geneva arrived home first, the door was always unlocked, even though they lived in high-priced building with top of the line security. Before she could motion for the door to unlock it for Roman, the key was already turning and the door was opening. 

"Baby, you're home early," Geneva beamed, taking Roman's suitcase from his hand and greeting him with a kiss. He jerked his head away from her, his body language as cold as his cheek.

"What is that?" He curtly asked, looking into the kitchen. "Why are you cooking?"

"Gee, I don't know," Geneva responded in the same cadence. "It's Friday. I haven't had a weekend off in months, and I figured I'd cook my man his favorite baked chicken, macaroni and rice meal for him -"

"I told you that I was having a dinner meeting with Mr. Salado tonight," Roman snapped. He stomped over to the living room wall and pointed to the calendar, showing her the current day circled with a note on it. "Is there even a point in telling you anything? Because clearly if it's not coming from your man-deprived shrew of a boss, it might as well have never been said, huh?"

"First of all," Geneva began, raising her voice, "How the hell do you write something on a calendar that is sitting over in the corner that only you go over to, to sit in your dusty old chair to read your dusty old newspaper?"

"You wanna start getting loud now?"

"No, you are the one that decided to start, Roman. I'm sorry I didn't go all the way over to the corner to look at a fucking calendar to see that you had a dinner meeting tonight. Probably because no one has had a use for a calendar since forever... or a newspaper for that matter. We all have smartphones... you know, that thing in my pocket that you could have called or texted at anytime to let me know this."

"Right, you mean this phone?" Roman countered, pointing to Geneva's phone laying on the living room table. He walked past Geneva, slightly bumping her, making his way to the table. Picking up her phone, he held it out in front of her, his arm fully extended. 

"This phone. The same fucking phone I've been calling and texting for the past 5 months, not one of which you've bothered to respond to, mind you", He argued, roughly swiping her phone to unlock it. "The same phone that if I go through now, there will be probably 50 fucking messages telling you about the dinner meeting. Oh, and Charlie's dance recital that you promised her you'd go to..."

Geneva's heart sank. "Oh my god. Charlie's recital? When is it?"

"3 months ago, that's when it is," Roman blankly replied, angrily scrolling through her messages. "Oh, and there it is. From three months ago:"

Hey, babe, don't forget about my dinner meeting With Mr. Salado on the 4th because Charlie and Dane are having their sleepover that night so you're gonna need to drop them off. 

"Here, do you wanna look at it?" Roman snarled, tossing the phone on the couch. "And don't worry about the kids, because I had Demetria pick them up after school. I figured it would 'slip your mind'. I'm shocked you didn't ask me where they were."

"I know where they are," Geneva asserted as she walked back into the kitchen. "Demetria let me know you asked her to pick them up from school. It would have been nice if-"

She stopped herself from finishing the sentence and commenced to stirring her still boiling rice, which at that point had hardened and slightly burned. She sighed heavily, picking up the singed side dish dumping it into the sink. Roman walked into the kitchen, each step practically emitting the force of his contempt.

"It would have been nice if what?" He challenged, standing directly in front of Geneva, but far away enough for her to move freely. "What, were you going to say if I had told you?"

"You could have called me," Geneva chided. "If I wasn't responding to texts, you could have just called me."

"Are you serious? Did you not hear me two seconds ago?" Roman bellowed exasperatingly, immediately realizing how loud he was being. "I'm done talking to you. I have to get ready for my dinner meeting. Do I need to remind you again that I'm having a dinner meeting?"

"Get ready? You mean you haven't had it yet?", Geneva questioned as she followed Roman into their bedroom. "It's almost 10 o'clock, Roman," she snapped, looking at the wall clock. "Who eats dinner at 10 o'clock at night?"

"She asked me while reeking of onions, and leaving the damn balcony door open to let out the smell of burnt chicken and rice", Roman replied back while pulling out a black and white checker top jacket and pressed black suit pants. "Apparently, late dinners are a thing we do around here... except mine was planned."

Roman laid his outfit on the bed, neatly placing his folded grey undershirt next to a tightly rolled pair of black socks on the bedroom dresser. He then took the attire he had just pulled from the closet and began smoothing everything out, methodically plucking and pulling pieces of lint from his pants. Geneva simply stood there in the bedroom door, watching his every move as he ignored her, unfazed by her daunting glare. "Have you seen my black shoes?", he mumbled, breaking the awkward silence.

She didn't respond.

"Genny, have you seen my new black shoes?" He asked again, this time stopping to look up at her. Once again, she remained silent.

"Oh, you're doing the silent treatment, now", He scoffed. "I got news for you: I've been getting this treatment for the better half of the year so it's nothing new to me."

He knelt down by the bed and looked under it. His almost giraffe-like neck made bending over easy, as he simply had to slightly bend at the knee and his freakishly long neck would do the rest. "You know, you could actually help me find the damn shoes instead of standing over me like an owl stalking a field mouse. I'm sorry you went to all the trouble of making dinner, but if you would actually communicate with me and stop ignoring my calls, or texts, or notes I leave you-- or, hey, how about you coming home at a reasonable time of the night so that we can catch up on life. Talk about the kids, make family plans -- hell any plans -- see each other naked and do something about it? You know, crap like that."

Geneva listened intently, showing no emotion as Roman went on and on about the state of their affairs, all while partly submerged under their bed still looking for his shoes. Suddenly, she remembered that she had left the second stove burner on that was cooking the macaroni. She immediately dashed to the kitchen, leaving Roman in the bedroom as he continued to list everything wrong with their relationship. As soon as Geneva turned the corner, she was hit with a cloud of smoke and the smell of burning pasta; she knew it was a lost cause. The water from the pot had completely evaporated, leaving nothing but frying macaroni shells. Now, the second side dish was gone, and in the oven was chicken that had been cooked an hour ago and was now dried up. 

Frustration came over her. She calmly turned the stove off, dropped the burned pot of macaroni in the sink next to equally burned rice and poured herself a glass of wine. The night was over. There, alone at the table, she listened to the sound of people outside, laughing and talking loudly, the multiple yells of "Taxi!!' coming through loud and clear. For a moment, she sat there pouring more wine and soaking in the immediate silence that she hadn't experienced in years, let alone the recent busy months. God, I miss this alone time, she thought. 

The hustle and bustle of the workforce, making and closing deals downtown at the bar. Where the hell has my life gone? From titan of the boardroom to glorified secretary. Roman wants this... the kids need that. Mom's hip went out again... why isn't Cherise putting her nothing down to go help her? Why is all this crap on me? Make this deadline, go to this recital, cook this meal, find my stinky ass shoes! I'm sick of this shit! Everybody wants something but doesn't have a damn thing for me!

"I'm done!" Geneva yelled, jumping up with so much force that the chair she was sitting in almost did a perfect flip as it crashed on the floor. She took her glass of wine and threw it clear across the room, shards of glass exploding all over the wall. Making her way over to the living room, she grabbed her phone from the couch and proceeded to look for a specific number. Tears were welling in her Geneva's eyes as she furiously searched for a specific number. It was then that she heard Roman's phone beep. He had placed it on the kitchen counter with his keys when he walked into the apartment. She ignored the sound, and went back to looking through her phone. Then it beeped again. And again. Now, her curiosity was peaked. Who is texting him this late at night? She wondered. Roman was still in the bedroom, presumably still on the hunt for his shoes, so Geneva quietly walked over to his phone, peering down the hall with each step. 

"Really?" Roman yelled, causing Geneva to jolt around so fast, she thought a vertebrae in her back popped out of place. Alas, he was yelling at her from the bedroom. "So I'm talking the whole damn time and you just leave out of the room? Love your priorities, babe."

"The pot was burning", she yelled back him. "Would you rather I let us both burn to death or stand there and let you continue talking at me while looking for your ugly loafers?"

"Ugly? These are premium Corinthian leather white cobra snakeskin shoes-  leather and snakeskin."

"Explaining what they're made of doesn't make them any less ugly", Geneva mumbled.

"Whatever. I found them, in case you were wondering. I'm hopping in the shower, so you have more time to care only about yourself."

Brushing off yet more of Roman's sour attitude, Geneva waited for him to go into the bathroom and listened for the door to close. Looking down the hall one last time, she grabbed his phone and attempted to access his it... but it was locked. This was no problem as Geneva had set his passcode for him when he first purchased the phone, but the fact that he was now using it made her suspicious. She entered the code... Passcode Invalid. 

"He changed the code? I didn't even know he could," Geneva muttered. "When did he change it?"

"Last week." 

His voice at such a close proximity startled Geneva to her core, prompting her to drop Roman's phone on the floor, all the more solidifying her sneaky intentions to her husband of almost 10 years. "What are you doing?" He sternly inquired, although he already knew the answer.

Geneva turned around to face the music. Standing before her was her husband, glistening in the dimly lit room as he held the blood red towel to his naked body with one hand and wiped his soapy face with the other. Granted, Geneva had been scared by Roman's sudden appearance, but seeing him in front of her, his toned and nude caramel complected body shielded only by a towel wrapped tightly around his muscular thighs. Geneva couldn't help herself. Even with Roman scowling at her with anger, she felt her body temperature rising the longer she stared as him, his beautiful brown pecs rising up and down with each breath.

"I heard your phone go off", she breathlessly stammered, slowly unbuttoning her blouse. "I didn't know if it was for work, so I was just making sure that--"

"Making sure that you could bring it in there to me after you read the messages?", he interjected harshly, picking up his phone from the floor. As he bent over , his towel came undone from around his waist and dropped into the hand that was grasping it. Standing upright, he had a phone in one hand, a towel in the other, and nothing between. Geneva's eyes immediately went down to past Roman's stomach, licking her lips with ecstasy as she leered perversely at her own husband's privates. "You won't answer a damn phone call I make to you, but suddenly you're so concerned about who's calling me."

Geneva began removing her clothes. "Just so you know I'm not done using the shower", Roman snapped as he wrapped the towel around his waist, "So unless you planned on going to bed dirty, you can wait until I finish"

"Or," Geneva purred, unzipping her blue knee-length skirt. "We can shower together."

Roman stared at her with bewilderment, but more with annoyance. "Genny, I don't have time for this. That could have been Salado calling me, and now thanks to you, I'm probably going to be late--"

She lunged at him, consuming his puffy crimson lips with her own as she ran her hand up and down his chest, his stomach, and then further down, cupping him in her hands. Roman's body language remained stiff to her every move. "Damn it, Geneva, stop it", he uttered in disinterest. But, her touch remained persistent as he motioned away from her... before long, his desire was undeniable as it crept from its hooded abode, trembling and twitching at Geneva's cupped grasp. 

"Genny", Roman stammered, unable to form a thought as the blood left his brain. "What are you -- What is this?"

"Has it been that long?" she laughingly cooed, slowly passing her hands down his dampened sinewy build. "I don't even care what we were fighting about. It's been so long since we've had this kind of time to ourselves. To hell with the calls, the meetings, the stress. I wa--"

And then his phone began vibrating furiously in his hand. It was as though the trembling of the device in his hand snapped him from the intoxicating trance of his longing wife. He motioned away from Geneva, collecting himself while he turned away to read his phone. Geneva looked at him, his piercing hazel brown eyes illuminating from the phone's screen as he stared intently at it. Her moment was over, and the cold brush of indifference once again enveloped her as she stood before her husband in her bra and panties.

"Salado's at the restaurant", she heard Roman say, his voice so faint that it was almost as if he were two miles away from her instead of mere inches. from her. "I'm just gonna change and meet him there." 

Geneva was too dejected to show anger. She picked up her clothing from living room floor and slowly proceeded to the master bedroom. Even though she could hear the shower running as she sat on the bed, the muffled sounds of Roman's voice could also be heard. Geneva deduced that he must have been talking on the phone with Mr. Salado.

As she wrapped herself in a red velvet robe, a meek tapping could be heard in the front room. Going to investigate it, she realized that it was someone knocking on the door. She assumed it was a child or an elderly person based on how light the knock was, but upon opening the door, she saw a casually dressed man in a ivory white long sleeved shirt, black slacks, and who looked to be in his early twenties with a medium build, but yet otherwise unremarkable in appearance.

"Can I help you?" She asked the stranger, who appeared to be startled at her sight. 

"Um... Yes, ma'am, my name is Matt. I'm an intern at Mr. Ballard's office. This is the address he gave me. Is he in right now?", the young man requested in a squeaky diminutive voice. 

"He is, but I'm afraid he's indisposed right now", Geneva answered, pointing towards the bedroom and the sound of their shower running. "But, I'm Mrs. Ballard. Is this something important he needs to know now, or can I pass along a message to him?"

"No, that's alright. I'll just call him at a later time. That's what I probably should have done anyway. Sorry to bother you at this time, ma'am. Have a good night."

Geneva watched the young man scamper away, with the puzzled look on her face matched by the man's eagerness to leave her presence. His reddish brown hair resembled a fireball as he rushed past the elevator and down the nearby stairwell. She closed the front door, still bewildered by the interaction that lasted no longer than a minute. She called down the hallway to Roman, who apparently was still showering as she could hear the water still running. 

"Did you just call me?" he yelled back at her, but muffled through the door. 

"Someone was at the door for you."

The shower turned off. After audible fumbling, Roman stepped out of the bathroom. His body glistening under the light as steam cascaded from his muscular frame as though his skin was literally smoking. Again, Geneva tells him that someone was at the door.

"Who was it?" He asked, seemingly irritated.

"He said his name was Matt", she replied listlessly. "Something about work..."

"Oh, shit," He exclaimed as he ran over to his phone. Geneva stared at him as the light from his phone illuminated his face briefly before throwing his phone down on the couch and running to their room. "Why didn't you come get me?"

"Because you were in the shower," Geneva responded incredulously. "Besides, I asked him if it was important --"

"Whatever", he snapped back at her. "I'm late as it is. No point in starting this."

"'Whatever.' 'Whatever.' It's always 'whatever,'" Geneva snipped. "I'm just telling you that 'Matt' didn't leave a message and I asked him if it was important."

"And I said 'whatever'. I'll just call him back on my way to the restaurant."

"So, when did 'Matt' start at your firm?"

Roman impatiently looked up at Geneva when she asked him that question, briefly pausing from fastening his cufflinks. "Why are you taking that tone?"

"There's no tone", Geneva said, clearly with a tone. "It's just that I've met everyone at your law firm, including the interns of your partners. I've never seen this Matt guy before."

"That's because he only started a few days ago, and he's still being trained. I don't know if he's gonna be a permanent fit, so the formal introductions are off the table until his probationary period is over."

"Oh," she bemused.

Roman sighed, now showing his irritation. "Now what?"

"Nothing."

"I know your 'nothings', Genny," he  exasperated. "Can you just say it now so we don't have to rehash it when I get back?"

"Okay, fine", she started, "If he's so brand new and you weren't going to introduce him to anyone just yet, why does he know where you live?"

Not missing a beat, Roman responded, "Because as my intern, my address was the first thing I had him memorize. He knows that if I cannot be reached by phone, he is to come here to relay any message to me. In fact, he is to come here first before calling. Surprised he found the place so easily."

"That makes no sense," Geneva bickered. "If he's supposed to make a beeline for our place first, why even bother giving him your personal number?"

"Dedication," he asserted while wagging his left index finger in the air. "I want to know how dedicated these news school kids are to hard work and doing what is asked instead of what is easy. Of course he could call me, but I want to know if he's willing to cut across town at any hour, regardless of traffic or other inconveniences, just to give me a message. The lazy ones would call if it go to be too much 'trouble.' Only a select few would drive 30 miles from the office just to tell me something minute and trivial in the grand scheme of things."

Geneva sat down and looked at Roman with a befuddled indifference.

"And clearly, he's willing to, but I missed him," Roman said as he grabbed his jacket and motioned for the door. "I'll see him tomorrow and get the message then. That is, if he doesn't make the trek again tonight."

As he opened the door, Geneva stood up and motioned to follow him. Realizing that Roman was no longer interested in engaging her, romantically or otherwise, she asked, "So that's it?"

"Jesus Christ, woman, give it a rest," Roman replied. "I said I was sorry you went out of your way for me. Look, we'll have a family day tomorrow with the kids, and then you and me at The Rouge tomorrow night."

Sucking her teeth and sulking towards Roman who has halfway out of the door, she tepidly responded, "Sure, Roman. Whatever you say."

They exchanged a quick peck on the lips, and as quickly as he had come home, he was just as quickly out the door on his way to a late dinner.

As she walked over to the couch and sat down in their quite home, there was something about the "intern's" behavior that continued to bother her, as well as Roman's response for his appearance at their place. She kept going back to Roman's nonsensical talking about the dedication of his interns and mentally remarking how unconvinced even he sounded with his words. 

And just when she thought she was reading too much into the intern Matt's behavior and Roman's dismissive reply, she remembered something important: The way Matt left.

Most people that lived in their apartment building knew of the "hot hours" of elevator use, which were the hours that the elevator was being used by the college kids that filled up the first three floors of their building. That current time fell under the "hot hours" because of said college kids going clubbing, leaving for the weekend, etc., which meant that most people that lived above the third floor used the stairwell and exited using one of the side doors that led out to the parking lot. 

Geneva had not noted what she found so bizarre about Matt's exit until she remembered the hot hours. She recalled that Matt went straight for the stairwell door and had not even attempted to use the elevator, an indication to her that he was aware that using the elevator at this time was futile.

But, Matt the intern's awareness to the elevator's optimum times for usage indicated one thing to Geneva: This was not the first time he had been to their apartment. 


Wednesday, January 11, 2017

Short Rant: Fuck San Antonio

Do people around the northeast end of San Antonio walk around with a stick up their ass?? It's everywhere I go, and most people I am forced to interact with, being complete assholes for no apparent reason. 

Something in your life isn't going well? Sorry about it, but your stank ass attitude isn't telling me anything other than the fact that you are a shitty person that doesn't know how to talk to people. It takes a lot for me not to return it in kind, and sometimes I do when the person becomes belittling, but for fucks sake, man. What the hell happened to generally faking it until you make it?

It's even with my family members, two of the worst human beings I have ever been around and can honestly say would not be around if not for convenience and being related by blood. 

See, I am a generally nice person. I like to wake up each morning and start anew, with a sunny disposition and something to at least be happy about. But sure enough, being around other people and their sour outlook on life just becomes infectious and before you know, a happy demeanor just became fed up with the shit.

San Antonio, you're big, you're boisterous, and you have a diverse culture. But your people are assholes, and it's too damn hot to be  dealing with assholes. 

And your traffic sucks.

And your stores are packed like hell, especially your HEBs with people waddling their hefty carts and even heftier asses through the aisles, stopping in the middle as if there isn't anyone behind them.

And then your Wal-Marts with workers running all throughout your stores, but only three to four at cash registers while the other 22 stay empty.

And your less than savory individuals who if they aren't asking me for money as if I'm Daddy Warbucks, or driving up to me at 10 at night asking me if I saw someone run past this area. As if I am watching strange people running up and down the street keeping track in case some shady person in a beat down Geo Metro happens to pull up next to me. 

Your downtown scenes are absolutely amazing and there is always something to do there. But, good lord, I can't take the people and the lack of personal space. If you're behind me and I can tell from your breath you had chimichangas while I'm still facing forward, you're too close me. 

Also, you never realize how many people smoke around you until you yourself stop smoking. That's not indicative of San Antonio, but since I'm bitching, why not dump everything out of the proverbial bitch purse. 

You're cool and everything, San Antonio, but I long to go back to Austin, high cost of living and all. At least the people there weren't insufferable cunts. And obviously, it's not all people in San Antonio, because I'm here, and I'm great. 

And the Spurs are overrated. There, I said it.

Okay, I'm done.


Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Long Rant: White Liberals, Stop Being Racist

Now that I have your attention and you are determined to defend your virtue, let me be clear: I do not believe that white liberals are inherently racist; your actions just have the tendency to be uber-passive aggressive in the sense that you are virtue signaling for the white guilt gods by saying that we as black people are this defenseless race in need of help from systemic racism. Well, guess what? In reality, you are doing nothing more than affirming your stance that not only are you as a white person better than us, but that we are so inferior that we need white daddy to save us from bad white daddy.

Black Lives Matter? Not my cup of tea, to be honest. Much like feminism, it was a movement started with the purest of intentions on paper, but has devolved into an oppression olympics of how black people are and will always be downtrodden, even though social justice movements like these have America so hard by the proverbial balls, that people are practically falling over themselves to apologize if something they said or did (but really said) was categorized as racist or bigoted.




Saying "all lives matter" in response to chants of "black lives matter" does not remove our humanity... why? Our lives are a part of those "all lives." You can say left and right that "all lives matter" diminishes our black lives, but you'd have to answer how that is the case. 

Black Lives Matter was a movement aimed at ending police brutality; unarmed black men were being killed at an alarmingly high rate. I would have more respect for the movement if not for its duplicity in perpetuating a dangerous myth about police and black people. For one, white people are the ones more likely to die in a police altercation. Two, the movement, much like the majority of world religions, was built on a lie. Finally, if we are really talking about the root of black lives being run down in these black communities, look no further than these black communities. 

No one is killing black people more than black people. 

If you think this is something I as a black man like talking about, it isn't. But I'll ignore the calls of Uncle Tom and coon and sellout if it means laying down some cold hard truths to the people so hellbent on ensuring that we regress back to the Jim Crow era and everyone be judged solely based on race. White liberals need to stop ignoring this shit and helping these regressives tap dance around the truth. It is literally killing us when you do this, and helping no one but those who would see us all die at the hands of each other than expose an ugly truth. 

White liberals, when you come to the defense of Leslie Jones after the Twitter bile she was subjected to, led by provocateur and glorified attention whore Milo Yiannopoulos, it borders between admirable and patronizing. After all, Leslie Jones has said her fair share of fucked up shit. Nowhere near the level of some of Milo's followers (and instigated by Milo), but as it stands, if you're going to condemn one person for vitriol, while ignoring the same when its someone who is a minority, you do realize what that is referred to as, right?



THE SOFT BIGOTRY OF LOW EXPECTATIONS

What that means is, because I am black, I can get away with saying and doing things that you as a white person could not... and I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't caught onto that early on and used it to my advantage. I see this shit playing out in the media all the time. When Christians are anti-gay, we condemn it. When Muslims are anti-gay, we kinda condemn it, but also create a false equivalence with Christianity, or chalk it up to "cultural differences." 

That's code talk for "We're more culturally evolved than them, so let's give them a cookie and hope they catch up."

For black and white people, it's racism. White people say fucked up things about black people, it's racism. Black people say fucked up things about white people, it's comedy. Or just not racism, because according to regressives like Chescaleigh (real name Franchesca Ramsey) and Marc Lamont Hill say that black people can't be racist

Oh, yes we can be racist... I mean, if we're looking at the definition of "racism", then there is nothing stopping us from being just as racist as white people. White people aren't better than me. They don't have any more power than I could have or have currently. We just happen to live in a country that is predominantly white, and yet for the last 8 years, one of ours (well, half of one of ours, but outwardly one of ours) has occupied the most powerful position in the free world. 

Not to say Obama being president ended racism (enough of that stupid strawman), but it'd be damn near impossible for a black man to attain such a position in a truly racist society.

White liberals, you're not helping black people by buying into this notion by "pro-blacks" that we are these helpless creatures acting out because of an oppressive system set up by the "white patriarchy" that is intentionally keeping black people down. My family and I are by no means living the life of luxury, but I see my aunt and mom and uncles making it, not coming up with excuses to feel sorry for themselves, but doing what they have to do.

And guess what? So is everyone else out here in middle and lower America. 

We don't deserve special handouts because we're black. We don't need white people telling us how oppressed we are when we fight back against this stifling narrative. Do you know I have had white liberals trying to tell me how oppressed I am? Trying to tell me about black struggles. I mean, really... how far does your head have to be up your ass to do that? 

Never before have I heard so much about race than when Obama came into office. He had his fair share of legitimately racist comments, but somewhere down the line, we as the moderate liberals and conservatives saw our movements being taken over by the extremists on both sides, and white liberals seemed hellbent on using us black people as nothing more than a talking point, not as individuals with our own agency.

I could go on all day, but this has gone on long enough. In closing, white liberals, I am just as smart as you, just as flawed as you, just as willing to sell out my principles for the right price as you, just as able to be racist as you, and just as capable of being held to the same standard as you. So how about you stop treating me like a retarded child and actually look at me as your equal? Or do I need to be like Ben Carson before you're vocally willing to talk honestly about your feelings?

Okay, I'm done... for now.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

The River Bears Jade


The bearer of this burden must endure the toll.
Why wait for a beacon to guide you?
It only lights the step in front of you.
Do you like the way life satisfies her sadism?
She gives you the start of the race
And she'll even show you the finish.
But, the road to the end is dark and obscured
What fun would life have if everything was given to you?
If life told you where to run
Where to walk
What potholes to jump over
What trees to never sit under for shade
What strangers to never ask for directions from
What to do
What not to do
Oh, no... she doesn't give easy.
She doesn't believe in simplicity.
And if simplicity beckons, be warned
It is not of her doing.
No, she gives us only the step in front of us.
She forces us to rely on instinct to guide our way to the line.
But, look over in the horizon.
With every step, the end comes closer.
Then moves further away.
The line is at the left.
The line is at the right.
There's a paradise awaiting you at the end.
By God, before your eyes it has transformed to Hell.
Your destiny
Your path
Your steps
Your future
With every lunge, she makes her message clearer
With each wrong turn, she makes her message clearer
With each new direction, she makes her message clearer
That nothing is clear.
Can you bear this burden?
 Can you endure this toll?
Look at your beginning
Look at your end
Look at the dark center between where you are and where you will be.
Use her light.

Now, be on your way.

7 Years Ago

Don't take it personal if I speak ill of your name Hate, then sad, is the my favorite method of rhythm You might as well accept the fu...