Otherside of the Game

Damn, this is why I can't work. My girl just calls me up and tells me she has a question for me. So I hop off the phone with Everett and ask what's up. She confirms with me that my ex was involved in some street shit, adding to the decimination of our community (What a euphemism that is) and then proceeds to ask me what she should do in the same situation. I don't think I told her what she wanted to hear, but all I could do was tell her the truth. If she went in with the knowledge that he was involved then it's something that she has to deal with now. I know it's so much harder to deal with when you see the shit up close, but she went in knowing, he didn't spring that shit on her. It comes to a point where you have to ask yourself exactly how much you are willing to deal with in order to be with that one person. For me, I took it to the extreme. There was a point in time where contacts knew me more than they knew him, I was running around picking up shit, running up pissy stairways and pulling up next to cars I had never seen before. So I know it's hard, but she said that she doesn't want to change him. So basically to me, she's saying that she can see the danger involved but still doesn't "want to make him something he's not". I don't care what anyone says - the game is not engrained in anyone. No one is born in that shit, you make a choice to get in and I told her it is going to have to be his choice to leave. It seems to me that she wants to take the route I took for a long time - "don't let me see the shit and we are alright". But this is as effective as a girl who knows her man is cheating on her but denies it until she sees a pregnant woman at her door. There is going to come a time when that bitch comes knocking. All you can do is face it, try to help him help himself and be there if that's who you wanna be with. There is no easy way out of that shit and I hope she wasn't looking for one because it's a hard life. And I don't think she was ready to hear the answer that it took me so long to figure out - "You gotta choose which one you love more, him or you."

Rich Kids Pay Folks to Do This

Maybe this will help me get a little focused.

My list of things to do. And by things to do, I mean shit I have NOT even looked at, haven't started at ALL.

* Write 5-7 page paper on Beloved.
* Write 5 short stories (one down, 4 to go)
* Critique 34 short stories and make two copies
* Read 4 chapters in Spanish book
* Read 3 chapters for Psych and study for test
* Do 5 pages of extra credit for Psych
* Write critique for Poetry course and write 2 more poems
* Write paper on Poetry technique (3 page)
*Read "Bless Me, Ultima" (a 200 pg novel)
* Finish writing Black History play
* Set up dry readings for play
* Write poem for MLKJ Day and have it memorized for performance
*Pack for the weekend
* Pay Express and Limited
* Find Graduation Gift for Kendra
* Write Kwanzaa poem ****added 12/5****
* Get my sick ass to the health center
* Get my ass off this comp and start doing some of the shit on this list.

Holla at cha girl. On a related note, procrastination has made me a Mah Jong Queen!!!

If you haven't checked out this kid Lyfe, get on that...he's onto something with this song - "Stick Up Kid".

I'm Rich, BIAAATCH!!!

Official Press Release:

Over the Thanksgiving Break, my friend Everett and I decided that we would be each other's "special someone", since neither of us has an official significant other. We both recieved plenty of well-wishes and "Happy Thanksgivings", but none from that one person that we can claim as our "own". So we signed a temporary contract that was supposed to last through Sunday that we would function as temporary significant others. Well, after plenty of negotiation, we extended the contract for a year, full benefits and exclusive rights to each other as a franchise. Can you tell Everett plays basketball? He's got me speaking in his crazy agent talk. Well here are the details:

My contract:

* 1 year, 5.5 million, 2.1 million signing bonus
* private office
* guaranteed "quality" booty at LEAST twice a week
* exclusive rights
* PDA until 35 days before my contract expires (gotta seem approachable to those interested in signing me for next season)
* Quality Time
* One mention in the blog per week

His contract:

* 1 year, 5 million, 1 million signing bonus
* Personal assistant available from 7am to 9pm
* Quality booty agreement, plus an added "love for the sake of loving" clause. (Basically, he is entitled to more booty if need be)
* added trust, friendship and honesty clauses
* exclusive rights
* less attitude from me
* PDA agreement
* one mention in the blog per week
* Quality Time
* brownies on his birthday

As you can see, we are crazy. I'm glad that nut is in my life though. But wouldn't it be great if relationships could come with a contract like athletes? That way, everyone would know what was expected of them and if anybody fucks up, you can drop them, have them return your investments and signing bonuses (whether it be time, money, clothes, love, trust...etc) and go about your business. Perhaps prenuptials are similiar but they are not in depth enough and only in effect for married couples. I bet if dating couples had to sign a one year agreement and were re-signed based on performance, fools wouldn't act so crazy. At the very least, you could squeeze 3 months of good behavior out before they know their contract is winding down. Yeah, I think that's a good idea - right up there with my girl Sommore's idea that men come with a "side effects" label.

So any guys that are interested have to now speak to my agent, as I am a signed woman. This is great, I can defer all offers to my agent. Just don't ask me who my agent is because I'm not sure I know. But I am happy with my decision to sign with Everett and I think we will have a successful year together.

Collect Free

It's midnight. Almost exactly. My house phone rings and when I look at my clock it says 11:59 pm. Too late for anyone to be calling my damn house. All of us have cell phones, if you need to reach any of the older folks in the house, you call the mobile. So I figure this person who called has either got to really need something or be ready for a good verbal lashing. So I pick up the phone and hear - "This call originates from a Correctional Facility in Misso-". CLICK. It was my crackhead uncle - literally. I have absolutely NO tolerance for him as a human being. His life means nothing to me. He has failed to be a husband to his wife, a brother to his siblings, an honorable son to his mother, an uncle to his nieces and nephews and most importantly - a father to his kids. So, by now you may be thinking , "this is another black male swept up and consumed by the prison system." Right? HELL NO. Wrong as wrong can be. My uncle had everything going for himself - intelligence to spare, good looks, a family that loved him to death, an education and a cunning business sense. So what went wrong? Instead of looking to his family and other positive things to fulfill his needs, he found solace in a needle. And, as Lorraine Hansberry so eloquently put it in "A Raisin in the Sun" - "It is dangerous when a man goes outside of his home to look for peace". It makes me sick to see what was once a good black man reduced to a fucking junkie from his own decisions and wrongdoing. And for that man, I have no sympathy or tolerance. It's like that.

Guns, Chains and Buttered Whips

I just picked up Sistah Souljah's No Disrespect. I am not even on page 1 yet. In her prolouge, she speaks of the reprecussions slavery still holds for many of us today. She questioned the lack of love Black people seem to have for our own people. This got me to thinking about the book Beloved. In the book, Paul D said numerous times that "it is dangerous for a slave to love". Many of us think that slavery had long ago ended. We have to change that thinking. We are still held slaves. We are held slaves to the thinking that we cannot teach our own children and that in order to recieve the best education, we must pay schools rooted in European teachings to accept our children. We are slaves to the idea that we cannot worship God without going to a building. We are slaves to the idea that a man cannot do anything for us unless his car is shiny new and he wears a tie to work everyday. We are slaves who teach our children (either consciously or subliminally) that athletes, actors and rappers are to be worshipped. We are slaves who beat our children harder when Ms. Hobbs across the street catches them than we do when they break one of the rules set in place to keep them out of harm. We are slaves who instill the thinking that black = bad in our children by whispering "don't act your color" in public to them. We are slaves to the idea that our natural state - whether it be our hair, skin or shape - is simply subpar. We are slaves who subscribe daily to the "Bullshit Times", teaching us how to reach the "American Dream". We are slaves who call each other "nigger", "boy", "girl", "bitch", "ho" and "muthafucka" so much that the white man doesn't even need to say it to us anymore. We do it ourselves. We are slaves who glorify those who sell death on the same street corners where children wait for the bus. We are slaves who listen to fools, whose ultimate dream is to have a "chain and whip". (Thanks to Common for that) We are slaves who are afraid to hold our male children too tight, fearful that we will turn them soft. We are slaves who teach our daughters that laying on their backs more than they take stands on their feet is ok as long as "you bring me home some grandchildren with some pretty hair and eyes". We are slaves who separate ourselves by outside appearances and de-value our beautiful African features. We are slaves who kill each other because of jealousy. We are slaves with masters that whip us with hours and hold us hostage with paychecks. We are slaves.

Paul D was right, it is dangerous for a slaves to love. Especially today. How can we love each other when we live like slaves who remain true only to our masters. How did we get to the point where we have allowed ourselves to be controlled by slips of paper with dead white men on them overlooking our every move?

In Baby Boy, Ving Rhames talked to Tyrese about guns and butter. Where he got those two words from, I'll never know. But his logical holds true. The slaves who idolize the American Dream, spew hatred towards each other, cannot see inner beauty, pass ignorance to our children and refuse to believe that they are restricted and in bondage are holding butter - or as I like to call it, chains. The ones who try to enlighten, who realize that in order to love we must first get rid of hate, the ones who value human life above all material, the ones who realize that cars and clothes only mean something to other fools who value those things - these are the ones holding guns, or whips.

The reason I chose the words chains and whips, besides the obvious slavery ties, is because this is what we are doing to ourselves. The chain people are holding themselves back through regression, refusing to break free, wrapping their minds so tight that nothing can get in and nothing can get out. The folks holding the whips are the one who are trying to beat the system, trying to open up wounds that we thought had been resolved in order to let them properly heal, the whip folks are the ones who hold a weaponery of knowledge. Guns, butter, whips, chains, however you look at it, we are slaves. Held hostage not only to a master, but to our own thoughts. Shit, En Vogue said it best - "Free your mind and the rest will follow". You cannot get your feet to go where your mind tells them not to. Let's change our way of thinking so that we can walk.

Walk a mile in my shoes....and then buy me some new ones

Damn, I really don't have anything to say. That's a good way to start a post off, huh?

I've come to the conclusion that I am addicted. I've known it for a while now, actually a real long time, but now is the first time I'm really able to take a step forward and do something about it.

Hello, my name is Ms. A and I'm addicted to buying shoes.

Whew...it feels so good to get that out.

On the way home for Thanksgiving, me and the girls stopped at the mall and of course I had to buy some shoes. I didn't mean to, they just kinda called out to me and begged for me to wrap them up in a bag and carry them home. I debated on buying them because I have NOTHING to go with them, but that just gives me more reason to partake in my other addiction - shopping for clothes. I cannot wait to get in a mall, feel fabric and place articles next to each other to see how they complement. Shopping is an art. I'm trying to paint a masterpiece of the perfect wardrobe. No one talked about Picasso while he was working so don't talk about me. Now the shoes habit is a totally different story. I have shoes that I bought to go with ONE outfit, that have NEVER gotten worn again, that's just sick. I'm trying to stop, I've taken that first step, haven't I? But there's just something about getting those shoes home and seeing them fit in with all the others, adding their own little splash of color and unique style to the plethera of footwear I already own. There's something so special about that first wearing, I feel like I am debuting some children for the first time since birth, "meet my new babies, aren't they pretty?". OK, I'm making my addiction sound a LOT worse than it really is, but I seriously love shoes. So feel free to refer me to any good sites.

I told you I didn't have anything to say, so if this entry has already gotten the ISRH (I Stopped Reading Here) mark, I really don't give a shit. I'm about to go watch Mean Girls with my kid sister, call my friend on the phone and eat some pound cake. Then I'm gonna walk around in my brand-new shoes. Ahhh, this is the life.

Baby Tigers and African Weed

Tonight was off the chain. I am SO glad I decided to take my butt out the house. Where to start?


First: The Club. So we all decide to go out and that means going to the only spot poppin' in the 'Ville on Saturdays - The Outback. It was the regular fun, lots of dancing, talking shit and folks drinking. Both the football and basketball teams had games today and both of them won. So folks are feeling good. Nothing unusual happens in the club, except this ex-basketball player from our school hits the hell out of this guy and literally makes his eye bleed. Understandably the guy was pissed, but what can he do? Fight back with only half his vision and a pounding headache? So he took that loss like a man and shot the basketball player an "I.O.U" with his eyes. After the club was the usual parking lot pimping with everybody trying to figure out where the afterparty will be. Finally, after a few hit and misses at different houses we end up at:

Number 2: The Africans' House. I'm a little pissed that we end up here since one of the damn Africans has been hawking me all night, I actually gave him my real number just because I know he's not the stalking type and he's actually a cool guy - as long as he's not trying to get with me. But apparently this is where the afterparty is, so we go. Well, we are there literally no longer than 15 minutes when the cops come and tell everybody "Alright, flush the weed and get out". WTF? Weed? There were probably only 20 of us in the house, dancing and lounging around. So the cops come in the house, saying they have "probable cause" to search since they can "smell the weed". Now, one of the guys who lives there does smoke but he wasn't doing it while the "afterparty" was going on. No one was smoking anything but black and milds and cigarettes. So we step outside, argue with the cops a bit, then finally sit in the car to see what they will do. They tear the house the fuck up. Looking above the cabinets, full search of every room and dismantling of all the furniture. Finally, they find what they are looking for. We see them go downstairs to the weedsmoker's room and we know it's a wrap. They suddenly, after a little talk with the weed guy, they leave. We go back inside ready to resume the party. Just as soon as we really get settled, here come the muthafuckin po's again! We burn the hell out, standing all on the lawn. The police bust open the door without saying shit, go back down to the room, and then walk back out. We questioned them about what the problem was now and finally one says "an officer forgot his phone". Bitch!! You coulda said that shit instead of busting all in the place and storming back down into someone's private domain. After the police leave for good, we talk to this weedsmoker and he tells us that they found his shit and took it and told him next time his ass was theirs. We laughed at him and told him that basically the cops just took him for some free weed and that the real reason they came back was because they forgot the rolling papers so they could smoke it. During our mini comedy session on him, two guys walk into his house. One guy - we'll call him Dumbass for the sake of indentity protection, starts to walk right back into the living room. The Africans' stop him and ask what the hell he is looking for in their house. After a lot of mumbling, Dumbass finally sputters out the fact that he accidentally "dropped" his weed box when the cops came and now he was coming back to get it. Think about that - who in they right mind drops some incriminating shit in someone else's house, knowing damn well who will get pinned for it, and then comes back expecting it to be there? Hence his name. That is like a criminal dropping his weapon in someone's car, running and then going right to the police lot to say "hey, I think i left my tec 9 in evidence car number 64545, you think I could get that?" Just doesn't make sense. So of course, Dumbass and Dumber get gone off on and told that if they ever show their faces again, they won't recognize themselves the next time they look in the mirror. All blood drained out of their faces and they turned into some straight "yes massa's". "We understand" , "I'm so so sorry", "I didn't mean to...", and finally they just shut the fuck up and powerwalked away. Well, at this time it's only me, my girl Cynthia and my girl Jamie left with all the Africans. Somehow, two of the Africans grab me and Jamie and hold us hostage for about 30 minutes of dancing. Finally, we get to leave with the excuse that I'm Jamie's designated driver and I need Cynthia to follow me to take Jamie home so that I can have a ride. It was the truth, but damn if them Africans didn't try to poke holes in our story like a groupie in an NBA star's condom. Pissing me the hell off. You are not my damn daddy, stop trying to make me answer to you. If I want to go, I'm going to go. No, I DO NOT want to spend the night, because if I did, I wouldn't be trying to leave. Duh.

Third: The Street. Cynthia parked kinda far away from the Africans' house so we had to drive her to her car. On the way, she keeps talking about some damn big ass racoon she saw on the way. She swears it was taking a nap on somebody's car, just chilling. Of course, we don't believe her, so she takes us by the spot and believe it or not, that bastard was still there. Now, I dont know how many of you have seen a big ass COUNTRY racoon, but those bastards are like 120 times bigger than the ones you see as roadkill on the highways in cities. These bitches are like the size of a baby tiger. FUCKING HUGE. This raccon took up like 1/2 of the windshield of this girl's car. We park in the middle of the street and decide that we must wake it up. What better way to do it than to throw something at it? So we start hurlings gum tins, mint containers, sticks and whatever else we can find at this creature. It doesn't move, perhaps due to the fact that with our girlie aim, we never come close to hitting it. Finally, two white guys walk up the street and we are estatic. YES!!! I mentioned their race only because we all know white folks are adventerous when it comes to nature shit. Further proof? How many white people do you see on the "When Animals Attack" videos? Now compare that to the number of minorities you see. Get a ratio something like 10008974837:0?I thought so. So I shout at the two white guys to see if the big ass raccon/tiger is dead. One of the guys shouts "it's dead!!!" I shake my head, insisting that I saw it's large rodent/mammal chest rising and falling. So one of the guys gets real close and......yanks the raccon right by the tail!!! The animal doesn't move. This convinces us that it really is dead. The question now becomes, did someone put it there, or did this thing just pick a random car, hop on the windshield and decide that a blue car was the perfect choice to die on? So we drive closer, get a good look with the windows rolled up and the doors locked just in case the little bastard hops up and grows aposable thumbs, take a picture and burn out. I know one thing, I would pay good money to see that girl's expression when she walks out to her ride. I know I would probably pass out if I saw that shit first thing in the morning. It's just so....unexpected and.....BIG.


So that was my night. Where else but in the 'Ville can you be entertained by a fight, some cops harrassing some Africans, and a racoon/tiger all in the same night? Yeah, man the 'Ville is unique, and I'm not sure if I mean that in a good way or a bad one...

Blogspot, eh?

I'm really not feeling this whole "Blogspot" thing, I already have a blog online at http://www.livejournal.com/users/soulfularies that I am perfectly happy with? Can you even customize your blogspot page? Or can you only use templates that others have made? And if the only way to customize your page is through extensive knowledge of HTML, I'm screwed. I will play with this a bit more, because I don't quit on shit I don't understand, but dammit if after a few attempts, I'm still not feeling it - I'm GONE.