I Cannot Finish Saying "I shouldve gone to art schoo.." Without Bursting Into Laughter.

CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS: 

"I should've bought this extremely unflattering sweater in a large instead of a medium..."

or…

CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS:

"I should've bought this extremely unflattering sweater in a color that doesnt make me look like a black smurf (like thats even a thing thats possible)."

orrr…

CURRENT RELATIONSHIP STATUS:

"This sweater makes my farts smell better than yours"

( Whatever floats your boat)

  

  Last night i had a dream that i was packing to go to college. Literally packing to go away to college. My mother all soft and subtle and quietsad and proud. The mini fridge and the cork board that matches the bedskirt all loaded onto the truck (no one in my family owns a truck btw). My brother all excited (he has ADD he kind of gets excited about everything) but sad to be losing his number one rolldawg nonetheless. And me…totally in awe of myself. 

  I mean...I mustve gotten off my ass at some point. Finished that book of "poetry" that I've been writing for the last three years. Finished that jacket i started sewing sophomore year of high school. I mean, I must have a whole collection of shit bitches be wearing. Showin off ass and titties…WITH MY NAME SEWN INTO THE INSEAMS. I must be responsible for a some brand new type of chic-hoochie! To the point where some bourgieous ass art college was like "Zamn. Get that bitch Over here." And I graciously accepted. Because thats a thing that i had in the dream…grace. Whatever the fuck that means.

   Anyway…

 Im packing up my shit. At the last minute of course. Which mean 95% of everything i own has been worn at least twice. And i come across my multicolored feather printed nightdress. And I'm like"college people will want to see my multi-colored-feather-printed-nightdress…college people will love that i HAVE nightdresses…CALL THEM nightdresses!" And am throughly prepared to rock this shit. 

  

SADLY

    In my very real life there is little time for nightdresses...Only blacking out. Orr...shit-faced-rip-my-boyfriends-clothes-off-throw-me-down-aand…the next thing i know its morning. The turtlenecks off but to Doc Martens are still on.  Or, of course, absolute butt-nekkedness. Which I am in no way opposed to. 

     

LOWFAT GANG ACTVITY

  If I had a nickel for every time some anorexic chick asked me to cut a biscotti the size of her pinky in half, id have AT LEAST two hundred dollars. "Damn, let me go put that new bentley on layaway."
  The universe is at no shortage for cruel jokes when it comes to me. Just when I thought I could sink no lower, I got a job selling fancy donuts to rich assholes....drunken...rich...assholes. Let's not even start in on the name of the joint ("F*recakes")and the fact that the owner only hires young women. No no...we wont even toe the line of the sexual implications. We will, instead, viciously attack their idiot-dickbag customer basis.
    Donuts are bad, I get it. Donuts are decidedly of the Devil, fine. But if you're going to stare at them (at me) AT LEAST come inside and do it. You've known no real terror until you've been stared down by fur-ridden botox zombies through plate glass for fifteen minutes straight, their martini dragon breathe fogging up the glass you spent all of this morning scrubbing. "fuck you...fuck you donuts. you will be my undoing." yes.yes.
   At first glance: "*GASPS* OHHHHHMYGAAAAWD! Is EVERYTHING a donut?!"
                                    (yes, you fucking idiot its a goddamn donut shop)
"yes m'am, eeeeeverythings a donut"
             "Which ones are low fat? HAHAHA(she and her posse of designer drones erupt in laughter)"
"(mother-fucking-eye-roll)"
              "They're all so huge. I think we'll just share one...(And this seems like a solid plan until one of her braindead cronies chimes in)"

"NO NO NO LETS GET ONE OF EACH SO WE CAN TRY THEM ALLLLLLL"

     And this is not so much her inability to finish a sentence, as it is the coupling of both her words and the shrill screams of her band of broads ringing in my ears.
           "*GASPS* Thats such a great idea! We'll take one of each, and would-you-mind-cutting-each-of-them-into-fourths?"
    Now this, is my most favorite part of it all. The part where I regain my dignity, and send these snot nosed bitches spiraling into the type of reality they thought they'd only see sprawled out in the pulitzer prize worthy pages of their prenuptial agreements:

"oh yes m'am! we have knives right out in front of the register...SO YOU CAN DO IT YOURSELF."

(and as their already overworked jaws hit the floor)      

                                      *A ROUND OF MOTHERFUCKING APPLAUSE*

BED BUDDIES

  He is my friend because he is the only person who understands how catastrophic an "Ashanti-with-with-a-penis" would be. (...It has just occurred to me that in 2013, all things are possible.)...
  There have been few constants in my life. Most things and/or people i drink and/or push away. Maybe its that he is the only guy I have ever actively pursued. And by actively, I mean i stared him down on the subway, but this dude is in my life like that splinter i forgot i had that calloused over and i will most likely be living with forever.
  TWO WORDS: sport fuck. "If you need to tire yourself out before bed, why don't you just go for a jog?" Because, dear sir, jogging requires pants. I mean don't get me wrong you're cute and all, and of your luscious penis, i am eternally jealous. But i think i enjoyed the jokes more than the splooge.
   I've never seen myself as the kind of person who would have the capacity or ballerific skillz required to have what i like to call a "bed-buddy", but in 2010 all of my wildest non-dreams were actualized in one shorthairyfunnyman.
    Now i toe the line between wanting to (and needing to) eradicate this succubus of a relationship, and truly believing in the preservation of such bonds. Ours is an illustrious history, with many tales of drunken phone calls and adultery, based almost entirely on insults and manipulation...but we do try.

Welcome Back

Everytime im making a latte, its like im running a little race against myself.....no...wait...
I decided that i was going to cheat on my boyfriend while we were fucking last night...there. Thats the shit I meant to say.
     I cannot be the first woman to have ever thought this. So I give myself credit for being straight up. I mean, he does not know this. He's excited about this blog. He's not going to be so excited once he actually reads it.
    I am a Loganite. Through and through. Biker, barista skills, useless pretensions and all. And I love it. My only problem is that im black. And everywhere I go (including my very own living room) I am the only black motherfucker around. Unless you count the rabbit....Chuck counts the rabbit.
    The thing about my being a barista is, every time I get hired somewhere, I know its because (as ive literally been told) I am "just black enough". Just black enough to make my employer look less-racist, just black enough to shuck and jive AND shut the fuck up, just black enough to get your average customers "Bon Qui Qui" reference...and not impale him through the eyes with my four inch acrylics. (I AM from the southside motherfuckers). These hoes also do not expect me to know plum shit about coffee. A hard head nod and a "so you used to work at starbucks right?" will do me just fine. I can make latte art and a cappuccino that could bring tears to an FOB Italian mans eye. No bitch. I am, in fact, a real boy.
   

A Book To Read

One of my favorite books is "Garden of Lies" although i have no clue who the author is. Its kinda funky to say this because its a novel about lotsa romances and mix ups and mishaps, but im telling you. its really really good. So this white lady marries this much older rich white man and she loves him and all, but the gettin' of the intimate is a little blah for her because she's much younger than he is (also he's really outta shape). anyway, she sleeps with the gardener. low key they fall in love. did i mention that he's mexican. (oh this is so stereotypical) so she gets pregnant. by the gardener of course. but she tells the husband its his. so when she goes into labor she goes to a hospital in the poor part of town where no one will notice her giving birth to this dark skinned baby. so after the delivery, the hospital catches fire and when it comes time for her to get her baby, she steals her roommates' baby. which was light skinned. (that babies mom died). so she takes the stolen baby and raises it as her own. and the other baby goes back to the family of the dead woman and then the father...dies too i think...and the puritanical grandmother raises the baby girl and calls the baby girls dead mother a whore because she looks nothing like her "sisters". the other (stolen) baby gets raised on the other side of town and her lifes all whoopdeedoo. but there's soo much that happens after that I cant say anymore. not even low key. just read it.

Pulp Ficiton

Grrrraaaawwwrrrrr! I love this movie! So Quentin Tarantino has this movie he made called Pulp Fiction and its about a bunch of kold killahs and bad muthaf$*kas, ya know? Basically, there's about a billion and one different plots that all intertwine into this one story about...wait, what was Pulp Fiction about? There's something in this case, but not everyone wanted what was in that case so...it wasn't about that. Um....Pulp Fiction is the kind of movie that you watch if you don't mind if the movie doesn't mean anything at all. It's got lotsa violence and a little bit of groovin and even a French girl (who by the way dates a guy named Butch who is played by Bruce Willis...ew). The score is pretty ingenious since it's about as random as the movie itself, and features a wide range of artists from Al Green to someone (or something) called Urge Overkill. Uma Thurman does a dope job as the wife of supa gansta Marsellus Wallace (played by the beautifully sculpted Ving Rhames), finally making sense of that line by Nas " I leave em froze like heroine in ya nose," and dragging an aging John Travolta back to his humble beginnings on the dance floor. Can you say....Saturday Night Fee-va!? Well, anyways, Pulp Fiction is an action packed movie not to be watched...witnessed by the weak at stomach for it follows in the blood bubbling tradition of all of Mr.Tarantino's films. Classic. Peace.

We Have The Right

We have the right to be who we wanna be?...to a certain extent I guess. We have the right to do anything. I can beat my wife as long as she doesn't tell anybody. Bad example but men used to think that. She's my wife; she's my property. Yuh. UM. Do you have the right to spray paint on walls? I think we should. The would we would so dopely colorful. But everybody always wants to relate "street art" to some kind of violence. And I guess to a certain extent (again) that is true but. I think that is also bull. I was looking at this fashion magagzine and they had pictures of topless women in poses were they were, like, prepraring to lick one another on the nipple. And I was like ,woah, if any other magazine did that, everyone would have an effing fit, but since its some silly fashion mag, its okay. I dont know. Its like iMc said, "the right people". You've got to have "the right people" behind you or you really don't have "the right" nah mean? Makes sense to me, but I still don't think that justifies it. Like who the hell are they? Their money and papers don't mean crap to me. But its not like art where I can decided whether or not I think its art and thats that eff everybody else. When it comes to rights you can't just decide what you do and don't have the right to do because, ultimately, the Law decides.