I have a comrade who JUST lost her virginity to this LAME she claims to be her friend!—some country huckleberry nigga with an endowment probably the size of his brain, all of which are meager. Whatever. 19 is too young for “girls” to be having sex. Boys, Shims, and she’s can fuck all they want—break ya back out and fuck all ya want, but please let the ladies stay ladies. Stay a Lady, Comrade.
Forgive me... I’m just emotional.
I think if I were a girl…first off I wouldn’t be GAY, hallelujah, but I’d definitely be on my P’s and Q’s about my pudenda. NO touchy. Sex honestly isn’t worth the headache, being a girl. My comrade called me, nearing tears, after having been taking advantage of by this LOSER that she calls a friend. And as the story goes she was drunk, he was drunk, there was a party, a back room, a futon….and lets just say cherries got popped, and bleeding yet still. What were you thinking, Comrade!
I know this other girl, at the money factory, where I work—and we’ve gotten pretty close. She’s the little pimp, and I’m the little homo and we’re always together at work, fussing like we’re married. So one day she tells me she likes dick, and I’m all like well yeah you’re “suppose” to, whatever that means, and then she goes, I like dick in my ass.
And don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of cock in the shit chute BUT for some strange reason it’s feels WRONG when girls play into it. You get fucked in the ass, girl?—WHY!?!
Getting fucked in the ass isn’t becoming. It’s not this season’s new pink! Its WORK, bitch! It’s an effort of mass proportions, MASS proportions—a strenuous effort of pure concentration, of tact, and control and strength and WiLL!! Hallelujah!!
WE wouldn’t get fucked in the ass had we been blessed with other Options and YOU, girl, were born with OTHER options! Maybe that’s why I think its improper for girls to even bother with sex—it’s like they just don’t know what to do with themselves. How does one even approach asking a woman for anal sex?
Hey baby, can I hit dat ass?—
And if that’s what he says, I would then HAVE to question further his sexual appetite, because that’s the type of CRAP you say to another MAN in a fuck house with your finger half up his ass already. I can’t even imagine that appealing to women.
THINK: All that pussy and he wanna FUCK you in the asS?
He didn’t even have the common curtsey to fumble his penis into your hole, missing your twat, by accident, of course and wait your response. Instead he just assumed you were gutter trash, felt there was nothing to lose, and outright ask, lemme hit dat asS, hoe.—and does he call you hoe?!?
Sweetie, he gay. And so you won’t have to wind up on Oprah in twenty plus years, sobbing while he's wearing your stilettos, tell him, with the full authority of your being: You have been BARRED from the pussy, Brutha! Disperse!
NO touchy!
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Whatever! It was a great weekend...
I went to Mrs. Fields Friday before work—she has a little cubby-hole in the wall on the first floor in the building where I count the money, and my fat ass loaded up on cookies. I ain’t never been to a Mrs. Field’s a day in my life but just because I had cash in my pocket I had to spend it. Eight cookies…ten dollars. And I told myself as I was paying, being over charged for them cookies, ain’t no batch of eight cookies worth no damn ten dollars esp when two of them greasy little suckers were supposedly free. But I passed Mrs. Fields her money and she handed me my expensive ass bag of cookies as I made sure to snatch ‘em from her trifling self. That is why I don’t carry cash.
RomiE and I joined Netflix… well he joined Netflix in hopes to educate me on all his favorite films. I, in turn, shall teach him the romanticism of musicals and “the classics”, which aren't really as "classic" as they are my favorites, plural, starting with my favorite, singular, which we already watched, A Lion in Winter and A Chorus Line, which is actually plural, two. He loved them. Both of them! And I believe my lesson begins somewhere next week with something like, Birdcage, which I hear is a staple of Gay Americana, and Paris is Buring, which I hear is a documentary of the Balls in New York. Yay me, huh?
I tried my hand at eating my man’s cakes the other evening while he was still half-sleep/half-woke…more sleep than awake. And though I’ve never been one for ass eating…ahem…though I’ve never eaten ass—the idea of burying my face in the crack of someone else’s hole has always rendered me intimidated, yet for some strange reason, the moon might’ve been full, I felt inspired, and was lead, lips pursed, to the crack of my brown baby’s bottom. Needless to say I’ve had bad ideas before…needless to say I’m full of bad ideas. Did I ever tell ya about that one time at band camp? ...Of course I didn't, bad idea. Therefore it is also needless to say what made that idea so bad is that one's natural reaction to an unwarranted ass invasion is first to clench, second, to cuss. Not such a smart move waking your man to ravage his ass. Inspiration nearly cost me my nose in the clenching. I guess I caught him by surprise. He growled at me unfavorably.
He sleeps pretty vivid anyway, my RomiE. Once, I had woken up early and was watching him dream (I’m such a cornball) because he’s so animated while he sleeps. It’s like watching a movie. There’s always whispering, and hand gestures, and laughing, and he’s always playing more than one character. So it just so happened I was watching him this particular morning and his mouth is going and his body’s twitching and suddenly, out of the blue, RomiE socks me in my jaw. BAM! He wakes up, I’m scrambling to find my face scattered across the floor and he’s all confused to what the hell happened cuz he just woke up. Turned out he was a cop in that dream, wrestling down the villain. I so happened to be in close proximity enough to be caught the actual villain. How quaint. I guess my jaw understands.
RomiE and I got to go to the movies this weekend and Kindrick and I went out to lunch. I even got to see my D-man at home, this weekend, and we caught up on all the latest Jennifer Hudson garble. Whatever! It was a great weekend.
As for the movie, V for Vendetta, which everyone should go see and read Mr. Brown’s review, we saw it on Saturday. I think D-man would enjoy this movie. Hell, I did.
So before you View me Void on this Visceral Vice, remember to Vouch and make Visible first your Voice, and Verbalize your mental Vomit. Never Vote against Vixens in Victoria’s secrets or Vandalize Vintage Volumes of Virgin Vaginas—for that, my friends, would be considered Vile!
Confused? Then you can call me V!
RomiE and I joined Netflix… well he joined Netflix in hopes to educate me on all his favorite films. I, in turn, shall teach him the romanticism of musicals and “the classics”, which aren't really as "classic" as they are my favorites, plural, starting with my favorite, singular, which we already watched, A Lion in Winter and A Chorus Line, which is actually plural, two. He loved them. Both of them! And I believe my lesson begins somewhere next week with something like, Birdcage, which I hear is a staple of Gay Americana, and Paris is Buring, which I hear is a documentary of the Balls in New York. Yay me, huh?
I tried my hand at eating my man’s cakes the other evening while he was still half-sleep/half-woke…more sleep than awake. And though I’ve never been one for ass eating…ahem…though I’ve never eaten ass—the idea of burying my face in the crack of someone else’s hole has always rendered me intimidated, yet for some strange reason, the moon might’ve been full, I felt inspired, and was lead, lips pursed, to the crack of my brown baby’s bottom. Needless to say I’ve had bad ideas before…needless to say I’m full of bad ideas. Did I ever tell ya about that one time at band camp? ...Of course I didn't, bad idea. Therefore it is also needless to say what made that idea so bad is that one's natural reaction to an unwarranted ass invasion is first to clench, second, to cuss. Not such a smart move waking your man to ravage his ass. Inspiration nearly cost me my nose in the clenching. I guess I caught him by surprise. He growled at me unfavorably.
He sleeps pretty vivid anyway, my RomiE. Once, I had woken up early and was watching him dream (I’m such a cornball) because he’s so animated while he sleeps. It’s like watching a movie. There’s always whispering, and hand gestures, and laughing, and he’s always playing more than one character. So it just so happened I was watching him this particular morning and his mouth is going and his body’s twitching and suddenly, out of the blue, RomiE socks me in my jaw. BAM! He wakes up, I’m scrambling to find my face scattered across the floor and he’s all confused to what the hell happened cuz he just woke up. Turned out he was a cop in that dream, wrestling down the villain. I so happened to be in close proximity enough to be caught the actual villain. How quaint. I guess my jaw understands.
RomiE and I got to go to the movies this weekend and Kindrick and I went out to lunch. I even got to see my D-man at home, this weekend, and we caught up on all the latest Jennifer Hudson garble. Whatever! It was a great weekend.
As for the movie, V for Vendetta, which everyone should go see and read Mr. Brown’s review, we saw it on Saturday. I think D-man would enjoy this movie. Hell, I did.
So before you View me Void on this Visceral Vice, remember to Vouch and make Visible first your Voice, and Verbalize your mental Vomit. Never Vote against Vixens in Victoria’s secrets or Vandalize Vintage Volumes of Virgin Vaginas—for that, my friends, would be considered Vile!
Confused? Then you can call me V!
Thursday, March 23, 2006
A string of Embarrassing Things
So I embarrassed myself at work yesterday. I was doing this project for school which had me calling all of the Greater tri-state area of Chicago and the little subsidiary boundaries in between for information about yamma, yamma…and yamma, and I ran into this lovely woman named Patricia, who catered to all of my question, during my spell on the phone. In fact she was so excited to talk to somebody that didn't call to complain, after the conversation, which took fifteen more minutes than I hoped it would, she gave me her office number to, someday, call her again.
So because that conversation went so well, I was happy. But because that conversation was fifteen minutes more than I anticipated…I was running late, for work. So I jump in my coat and hit the streets, and as I’m realizing that it’s too warm for a coat, I’m high off happy-endorphins and I call my boss to give her the heads-up that I’m running late. I dial the number. I get her voicemail. And so as I leave this wonderfully intoxicating message of my whereabouts and the reasons for my tardiness and so forth my dumbass gonna end the message saying:
Hope to see you soon as possible. LOVE you Josy (my boss), buh-bye.
I told my boss I loved her. I TOLD my BOSS I LOVED her…her! How disgusting! So I’m on the street and I’m freaking out and situations like this only invite the recollection of other embarrassing moments.
Did I ever tell you about the time I was asked to read poetry at this art gallery shindig? Well I was taking this Poetry class last semester, and poetry classes at Columbia are little circles for ritzy elitist to jerk their jollies, quoting Shakespearian monologues while smoking Cuban cigars, so I always felt like a fool sitting amongst them, cuz I can jerk off at home. Well anywho, I had a spoken word artist in my class, this urban little white guy—and I loved him! Of course I wouldn’t leave him a message saying that, but I loved the spoken word artist, and in fact he was a fan of mine as well. So long story short he was running a non for profit organization for people of the arts and they were putting together a gallery or something and he liked me so much he wanted me to read at his function. They had my name printed on flyers and everything. So naturally I’m thinking its my time to show up and show out. I call all my peoples and everyone shows up to watch me read at the gallery thingy.
I and my entourage of family and friends were just about the only black people there. And if you don’t know my writing…I write about either being gay or black…and if I’m feeling spicy enough, I’ll write together the two. It just so happened the spoken word artist only knew of my writing from what I had written in class which never occurred to me until I sat on that stool in front of all those people at the gallery to read because not once in class had I ever brought those black and/or gay aspects of my myself into my writing in that class. So Tom, the spoken word artist had no idea the damage I was about to cause.
I had only prepared 3 poems and after looking at my audience of lipsticks and fur coats and heels with diamond studded watches that mirrored blonde hair, I knew then that none of my material was appropriate. I was about to scare these people. They just weren’t my audience. So I open my mouth, introduce myself—some listen some don’t, and I preface the first poem as being a work in progress which was my round about way of saying forgive me:
The sun is Made of Niggaz!
And I died. I died but I heard my mouth kept moving, so I assume I kept on reading. But the last visual I had of that evening was Tom’s jaw falling to the floor, and the last thing I heard where hearts breaking. THAT was embarrassing!—because I had two more poems to go.
I wound up calling Brown Boy who told me not to panic and call my boss back and explain the situation, apologize and take my ass on to work. I did. but she smiled at me all night long. Here was the poem if you were wondering how it finished.
Untitled
So because that conversation went so well, I was happy. But because that conversation was fifteen minutes more than I anticipated…I was running late, for work. So I jump in my coat and hit the streets, and as I’m realizing that it’s too warm for a coat, I’m high off happy-endorphins and I call my boss to give her the heads-up that I’m running late. I dial the number. I get her voicemail. And so as I leave this wonderfully intoxicating message of my whereabouts and the reasons for my tardiness and so forth my dumbass gonna end the message saying:
Hope to see you soon as possible. LOVE you Josy (my boss), buh-bye.
I told my boss I loved her. I TOLD my BOSS I LOVED her…her! How disgusting! So I’m on the street and I’m freaking out and situations like this only invite the recollection of other embarrassing moments.
Did I ever tell you about the time I was asked to read poetry at this art gallery shindig? Well I was taking this Poetry class last semester, and poetry classes at Columbia are little circles for ritzy elitist to jerk their jollies, quoting Shakespearian monologues while smoking Cuban cigars, so I always felt like a fool sitting amongst them, cuz I can jerk off at home. Well anywho, I had a spoken word artist in my class, this urban little white guy—and I loved him! Of course I wouldn’t leave him a message saying that, but I loved the spoken word artist, and in fact he was a fan of mine as well. So long story short he was running a non for profit organization for people of the arts and they were putting together a gallery or something and he liked me so much he wanted me to read at his function. They had my name printed on flyers and everything. So naturally I’m thinking its my time to show up and show out. I call all my peoples and everyone shows up to watch me read at the gallery thingy.
I and my entourage of family and friends were just about the only black people there. And if you don’t know my writing…I write about either being gay or black…and if I’m feeling spicy enough, I’ll write together the two. It just so happened the spoken word artist only knew of my writing from what I had written in class which never occurred to me until I sat on that stool in front of all those people at the gallery to read because not once in class had I ever brought those black and/or gay aspects of my myself into my writing in that class. So Tom, the spoken word artist had no idea the damage I was about to cause.
I had only prepared 3 poems and after looking at my audience of lipsticks and fur coats and heels with diamond studded watches that mirrored blonde hair, I knew then that none of my material was appropriate. I was about to scare these people. They just weren’t my audience. So I open my mouth, introduce myself—some listen some don’t, and I preface the first poem as being a work in progress which was my round about way of saying forgive me:
The sun is Made of Niggaz!
And I died. I died but I heard my mouth kept moving, so I assume I kept on reading. But the last visual I had of that evening was Tom’s jaw falling to the floor, and the last thing I heard where hearts breaking. THAT was embarrassing!—because I had two more poems to go.
I wound up calling Brown Boy who told me not to panic and call my boss back and explain the situation, apologize and take my ass on to work. I did. but she smiled at me all night long. Here was the poem if you were wondering how it finished.
Untitled
The sun is made of niggaz—
So I’m the one to die?
And this you tell me face to face for lies you hadn’t cared to hide behind
On a star who’d whisk me into the flaming
Torture, of the blackmen blazing,
Raging loud and louder raging
To stoke a fire forever flaming!—
Just to see me dance.
Pop and fizz you’d watch me
roll about the sun flick-flickering
breathing stopped
but you keep tinkering
hoping not
that I stopped breathing
Just to see me dance.
You’ll laugh until you’re flushed with soreness
For I am but fuel for the flame.
And condemn, you will, another man to madness
For niggaz all dance the same.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Dear D-man,
I have to pay the Love Card toady and I forgot my freaking password to the Bankone site, which is being taken over by Chase.com in a matter of days, and the bill is due tomorrow. Crap!
I’m on Spring Break!—which really isn’t a break from anything, with all the homework I owe. I’m behind what can be considered forty pages in my Fiction class, a few journal entries in my Critical Reading and Writing course….and a few responses to our online forums in my Poetry class… and its Wednesday…so the week is almost over…the only week we were given for spring break. So this morning, what I intend on doing, after I blog my fingers to a pulp, I am going to write some fiction so as I crawl my ass back to campus on Monday I’ll at least have something to turn in. Someone was telling me CTA, Chicago’s public transit system, was going on strike. Maybe that’ll bide me more “homework time”. I can only imagine the mayhem.
Anywho…I have this paper cut on the finger in between the middle finger and pinky. Does that finger have a name?—and I have a corn on my big toe, right foot. When I use to work at the ice cream shop, which would be the perfect opening to a novel, the markings of a good days work would be chocolate on the forearms and/or waffle cone batter on the sleeves and shoes, all of which were oblivious to you until you got home to shower because only when clean would you've been able to recognize how dirty the ice cream shop had made you... At the money factory, however, it seems to be the daily order of things to receive corns and paper cuts without ever having to exert yourself. So I assume when one does go above and beyond, and flip all the envelopes that desperately need flipping and count all the money there is to count, they’re hands are fixing to look like pulverized deli meats. And I have a paper cut. Yum!
Well, I was looking at my feet, which were pretty until this job, and had come to the realization that I could now never become a foot model. Which was really tough to get over (not)…but NOW I have a corn which means that NOW I can never make fun of “those other people” who have corns because NOW I’m of “those other people”. Crap! I’m happy this won’t weigh heavy on my self image, otherwise I’d be ruined. In essence work is okay. I’ve gotten faster at counting the money which is probably the highlight of my week. I prepped a 116 last night and a 157 on Monday, which means I managed 116 envelopes an hour yesterday and 157 envelopes on Monday…the money comes to us in envelopes. I don’t know if I’ve ever explained that portion of my job to you. Forgive the confusion. Just know that I’m getting much faster and much closer to “making rate”, which is another money factory term, of 200 envelopes per hour, per night.
RomiE and I are doing well. In fact he attempted a project I have due the Thursday I return from spring break, for my science class. What a man!—right?—so that’s well in to the works.
Last night, which is something I feel I need to address for myself more so than anyone else…last night I think I realized that we, RomiE and I “live” together or/ are living together. Shhhh!!! I’m still trying to digest it. I can't remember the last time i saw my mother, or that couch in the basement where I slept. This is heavy. The RomiE, the apartment, the bills, the solidifying a future—a wholesome future together. I think I’m thinking too much. But I saw the light in his face last night when I asked him were we, in fact, living together?... And the smile he gave served to answer my question better than any words he could have ever afforded. Yes.
Sincerely,
SunLyte
I’m on Spring Break!—which really isn’t a break from anything, with all the homework I owe. I’m behind what can be considered forty pages in my Fiction class, a few journal entries in my Critical Reading and Writing course….and a few responses to our online forums in my Poetry class… and its Wednesday…so the week is almost over…the only week we were given for spring break. So this morning, what I intend on doing, after I blog my fingers to a pulp, I am going to write some fiction so as I crawl my ass back to campus on Monday I’ll at least have something to turn in. Someone was telling me CTA, Chicago’s public transit system, was going on strike. Maybe that’ll bide me more “homework time”. I can only imagine the mayhem.
Anywho…I have this paper cut on the finger in between the middle finger and pinky. Does that finger have a name?—and I have a corn on my big toe, right foot. When I use to work at the ice cream shop, which would be the perfect opening to a novel, the markings of a good days work would be chocolate on the forearms and/or waffle cone batter on the sleeves and shoes, all of which were oblivious to you until you got home to shower because only when clean would you've been able to recognize how dirty the ice cream shop had made you... At the money factory, however, it seems to be the daily order of things to receive corns and paper cuts without ever having to exert yourself. So I assume when one does go above and beyond, and flip all the envelopes that desperately need flipping and count all the money there is to count, they’re hands are fixing to look like pulverized deli meats. And I have a paper cut. Yum!
Well, I was looking at my feet, which were pretty until this job, and had come to the realization that I could now never become a foot model. Which was really tough to get over (not)…but NOW I have a corn which means that NOW I can never make fun of “those other people” who have corns because NOW I’m of “those other people”. Crap! I’m happy this won’t weigh heavy on my self image, otherwise I’d be ruined. In essence work is okay. I’ve gotten faster at counting the money which is probably the highlight of my week. I prepped a 116 last night and a 157 on Monday, which means I managed 116 envelopes an hour yesterday and 157 envelopes on Monday…the money comes to us in envelopes. I don’t know if I’ve ever explained that portion of my job to you. Forgive the confusion. Just know that I’m getting much faster and much closer to “making rate”, which is another money factory term, of 200 envelopes per hour, per night.
RomiE and I are doing well. In fact he attempted a project I have due the Thursday I return from spring break, for my science class. What a man!—right?—so that’s well in to the works.
Last night, which is something I feel I need to address for myself more so than anyone else…last night I think I realized that we, RomiE and I “live” together or/ are living together. Shhhh!!! I’m still trying to digest it. I can't remember the last time i saw my mother, or that couch in the basement where I slept. This is heavy. The RomiE, the apartment, the bills, the solidifying a future—a wholesome future together. I think I’m thinking too much. But I saw the light in his face last night when I asked him were we, in fact, living together?... And the smile he gave served to answer my question better than any words he could have ever afforded. Yes.
Sincerely,
SunLyte
Monday, March 06, 2006
C'mon, you've Gotta be kidding me!!!
I normally don't blog twice in a day but this I had to vent.
So I'm walking outta the house, heading for class, and just for fun I check my coat pocket for my Upass. I can't ride the bus to school without my Upass. So its not in my coat pocket, so I check my pants pocket, and so its not in my pants pocket. I'm like, okay, I'm cool. RomiE, in an attempt to keep me organized gave me this "purse", is what I call it, that’s stores all of my credits cards, ID's and such. So I'm like my Upass should be in there. I grab my purse, unzip it….and nothing, no Upass. So I freak, I started snatching looking behind shit, under shit, flipping covers under comforters and I can't find my Upass. I'm running late for class. So I then debate whether or not to even go.
If there was a quiz, I missed it, so why even bother, right? But then I realized I still have to go to work so I still had to find my Upass so I might as wel take my ass to class too, cuz if I was gonna not go to something today, I would not go to work but I have to, so I might as well take my black ass to class.
Fifteen minutes from that revelation I found my Upass…stuck in some miscellaneous crevice of my purse. ArGH!!!! Sorry about the house, RomiE. So I'm running down the street, pushing little kids outta the way, and there's no bus, AND its snowing, so I'm cold. SO I give the bus (the 75th) a few minutes, decide its not coming and start walking down to the other bus that actually drops me off in front of my school building (the number 14). I get mid way and the 75th street bus pulls up behind me. What a wasted walk. I get on it-it takes me to the end of the block where I get off to wait on the stop for the OTHER bus, the number 14. It doesn't come. There grows a crowd of people you would not believe and the freaking bus does not come. I'm tapping my shoes, I'm checking my watch, I'm counting sheep and the 14 doesn't show up. FUCK. Class starts at One o'clock, and here it is 12 forty something. It takes the number 14 at least 20 minutes to reach my school…and its no where in sight. So finally it shows up. But the crowd so thick on the street, it passes me up. FUCK! The next bus after that was a number 15, which doesn't go anywhere near my school but puts me in the vicinity to catch another bus that does, so I take it. Times ticking. I call my teacher, leave a message, tell him I'm gonna be late, and get off the fifteen and was just in time to actually catch a number 14 bus that was running behind it.
So I get to class twenty minutes late, and the only seat available is this seat next to the my teacher who is already in mid lecture about rhyming words, (it’s a poetry class). So I look at him, and he looks at me, and I swear this class is so boring, it borders torment. I fell asleep. I feel asleep so hard I heard my head knock against the table when it crashed. I woke up, class was damn near over. The teacher had paired everyone off in these little discussion groups and after I woke up he assigned me to this pair of white boys and I'm looking all stupid cuz I don't know what's going on and they're well into whatever the hell we were assigned and I'm like…yeah….I see.
Class end with my teacher announcing that our "Anthology projects" are due next week, and how he was looking forward to seeing what we came up with and I'm like FUCK! I thought that was dues last day of class, May 13…but misread the due date because OBVIOUSLY its due March 13. I'm going to fail something this semester. I just emailed another teacher about an extension on a paper that’s due this Wednesday. I won't be able to finish it. In my defense I was given the prompt for the wrong paper but did recognize it until last week and she gave us 3 weeks for this assignment. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Well she asked if I needed more time on the paper, and I was going to tell her no but in light of now having to pull together this other project I'm gonna need the time to focus. I am so tired of this already. I got my work station set up at RomiE's, I'm hoping things are gonna have to get better. They just have to.
I'm hoping.
Jennifer emailed me back. She sounded all excited about the idea of owning that camera and said Chris, her brother, another Photography was intending on purchasing the exact same model. I plan on calling her tomorrow. Right now, I need to think of poetry and lunch. ArGH!!!
So I'm walking outta the house, heading for class, and just for fun I check my coat pocket for my Upass. I can't ride the bus to school without my Upass. So its not in my coat pocket, so I check my pants pocket, and so its not in my pants pocket. I'm like, okay, I'm cool. RomiE, in an attempt to keep me organized gave me this "purse", is what I call it, that’s stores all of my credits cards, ID's and such. So I'm like my Upass should be in there. I grab my purse, unzip it….and nothing, no Upass. So I freak, I started snatching looking behind shit, under shit, flipping covers under comforters and I can't find my Upass. I'm running late for class. So I then debate whether or not to even go.
If there was a quiz, I missed it, so why even bother, right? But then I realized I still have to go to work so I still had to find my Upass so I might as wel take my ass to class too, cuz if I was gonna not go to something today, I would not go to work but I have to, so I might as well take my black ass to class.
Fifteen minutes from that revelation I found my Upass…stuck in some miscellaneous crevice of my purse. ArGH!!!! Sorry about the house, RomiE. So I'm running down the street, pushing little kids outta the way, and there's no bus, AND its snowing, so I'm cold. SO I give the bus (the 75th) a few minutes, decide its not coming and start walking down to the other bus that actually drops me off in front of my school building (the number 14). I get mid way and the 75th street bus pulls up behind me. What a wasted walk. I get on it-it takes me to the end of the block where I get off to wait on the stop for the OTHER bus, the number 14. It doesn't come. There grows a crowd of people you would not believe and the freaking bus does not come. I'm tapping my shoes, I'm checking my watch, I'm counting sheep and the 14 doesn't show up. FUCK. Class starts at One o'clock, and here it is 12 forty something. It takes the number 14 at least 20 minutes to reach my school…and its no where in sight. So finally it shows up. But the crowd so thick on the street, it passes me up. FUCK! The next bus after that was a number 15, which doesn't go anywhere near my school but puts me in the vicinity to catch another bus that does, so I take it. Times ticking. I call my teacher, leave a message, tell him I'm gonna be late, and get off the fifteen and was just in time to actually catch a number 14 bus that was running behind it.
So I get to class twenty minutes late, and the only seat available is this seat next to the my teacher who is already in mid lecture about rhyming words, (it’s a poetry class). So I look at him, and he looks at me, and I swear this class is so boring, it borders torment. I fell asleep. I feel asleep so hard I heard my head knock against the table when it crashed. I woke up, class was damn near over. The teacher had paired everyone off in these little discussion groups and after I woke up he assigned me to this pair of white boys and I'm looking all stupid cuz I don't know what's going on and they're well into whatever the hell we were assigned and I'm like…yeah….I see.
Class end with my teacher announcing that our "Anthology projects" are due next week, and how he was looking forward to seeing what we came up with and I'm like FUCK! I thought that was dues last day of class, May 13…but misread the due date because OBVIOUSLY its due March 13. I'm going to fail something this semester. I just emailed another teacher about an extension on a paper that’s due this Wednesday. I won't be able to finish it. In my defense I was given the prompt for the wrong paper but did recognize it until last week and she gave us 3 weeks for this assignment. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Well she asked if I needed more time on the paper, and I was going to tell her no but in light of now having to pull together this other project I'm gonna need the time to focus. I am so tired of this already. I got my work station set up at RomiE's, I'm hoping things are gonna have to get better. They just have to.
I'm hoping.
Jennifer emailed me back. She sounded all excited about the idea of owning that camera and said Chris, her brother, another Photography was intending on purchasing the exact same model. I plan on calling her tomorrow. Right now, I need to think of poetry and lunch. ArGH!!!
Maybe Jenn's outta Town...
Breakfast this morning was oatmeal. He, as in RomiE, ran off to work and I satyed home, at the new computer, which we set up this weekend and bought a brand new desk for. It sits in the media room i.e. the USE to be empty second bedroom—empty until we stuffed it full of desk and electronics. We also ordered the room a Futon and bought the bed a frame yesterday too. In fact this weekend was pretty much dedicated to getting stuff done. We got dishes, a blender, a toaster, new accents for the bathroom and a computer!—I have my homework station and RomiE can download his music without ever having to borrow the laptop from work EVER again. This is good. Things are happening.
So I found the camera that I THINK I wanna buy—a little more than I would’ve bargained for, but I think I can afford it. I’m sure this puts the I pod and Laptops on hold until further Junior year, but I think it’ll be worth it. I wanna get serious with my photography.
What has me liking this Camera, The Nikon D200, Is that the number of megapixels for the price are just outrageous. !0.2 megapixels for under 3 grand AND the camera comes with lens…most professional Digital SLR’s, if you didn’t know, don’t come with a lens, normally you have to buy the body of the camera and THEN shell out hundreds upon thousands of more dollars to buy a lens, and though this camera’s a meager pennies outta my price range this seems the better deal. I can’t imagine passing up a bargain. My mother use to buy candy coated raisins from a dark man in periwinkle blue seeling merchandise outside of the grocery store, just because they were cheap and on sale. They were nastiest things ever christened by artificial flavoring and brought no benefit to the household except during the holidays when we were able to unload our cargo of rainbow colored raisins to charity. All of that to say I’ve dealt with worse and I need a camera…so I’m thinking this might be it. I emailed Jennifer, from the OckenPhotography studio, whom I use to work with, about my decision and asked her for advice:
http://www.jr.com/JRProductPage.process?Product_Code=NKN+D200%2fKIT&JRSource=zdnet.datafeed.NKN+D200%2fKIT#productTabDetails
THIS, Jennifer, is the camera i'm tempted to purchase. THIS, Jennifer, is the camera, i want you to teach me how to use, THIS, Jennifer, is the where i THINK i wanna begin learning all there is to know about digital photography so i can be a photo-snapping guru like you and the rest of the Oken clan! Jennifer!! Talk to me, Damnit!
Okay, so the issues i'm having with THIS camera is that its a tad bit outta my price range...maybe a couple of hundred bucks, but its only a couple hundred bucks is what i'm thinking..and i gotta job. Just my luck after saying that, they'll fire me next week, but we'll hope for the best, shall we. Anywho, on the Plus side (the side with all the plusses on it) its a 10.2 megapixels SLR for under three grand, so I'm excited AND it comes WITH a lens versus without... and from the many i've seen that seems to me a bargain. But who the hell am I, right? Because i no nothing about purchasing SLR's, it being all fancy and cheaper than what i've seen others to be, might not mean much.
What i do know is that i want a REAL camera, semi-pro to pro--none of that pick-off, wanna-be shit. I can't afford to upgrade every other year so I need to get what I can get NoW while i can afford to get it. Ya feel me, Jennie-baby?
Bottom line is I need to talk with the professionals! I NEED you! You're my resource. Advise me, Resource! Guide me, Resource!
Thank you for listening to my rant. I hope i haven't scared you. How were the weddings in February? Talk to you soon.
Ken
And she hasn’t emailed me back. Secretly I want her to direct me to something cheaper. Something just as nice but something even cheaper. I even checked on ebay for the camera and it was still pricy, and the sales I saw on ebay had the camera but without the lens. ARGH!!! I want this camera. ARGH!!! I want a camera… but this camera would be nice. Maybe Jenn's outta town...
So I found the camera that I THINK I wanna buy—a little more than I would’ve bargained for, but I think I can afford it. I’m sure this puts the I pod and Laptops on hold until further Junior year, but I think it’ll be worth it. I wanna get serious with my photography.
What has me liking this Camera, The Nikon D200, Is that the number of megapixels for the price are just outrageous. !0.2 megapixels for under 3 grand AND the camera comes with lens…most professional Digital SLR’s, if you didn’t know, don’t come with a lens, normally you have to buy the body of the camera and THEN shell out hundreds upon thousands of more dollars to buy a lens, and though this camera’s a meager pennies outta my price range this seems the better deal. I can’t imagine passing up a bargain. My mother use to buy candy coated raisins from a dark man in periwinkle blue seeling merchandise outside of the grocery store, just because they were cheap and on sale. They were nastiest things ever christened by artificial flavoring and brought no benefit to the household except during the holidays when we were able to unload our cargo of rainbow colored raisins to charity. All of that to say I’ve dealt with worse and I need a camera…so I’m thinking this might be it. I emailed Jennifer, from the OckenPhotography studio, whom I use to work with, about my decision and asked her for advice:
http://www.jr.com/JRProductPage.process?Product_Code=NKN+D200%2fKIT&JRSource=zdnet.datafeed.NKN+D200%2fKIT#productTabDetails
THIS, Jennifer, is the camera i'm tempted to purchase. THIS, Jennifer, is the camera, i want you to teach me how to use, THIS, Jennifer, is the where i THINK i wanna begin learning all there is to know about digital photography so i can be a photo-snapping guru like you and the rest of the Oken clan! Jennifer!! Talk to me, Damnit!
Okay, so the issues i'm having with THIS camera is that its a tad bit outta my price range...maybe a couple of hundred bucks, but its only a couple hundred bucks is what i'm thinking..and i gotta job. Just my luck after saying that, they'll fire me next week, but we'll hope for the best, shall we. Anywho, on the Plus side (the side with all the plusses on it) its a 10.2 megapixels SLR for under three grand, so I'm excited AND it comes WITH a lens versus without... and from the many i've seen that seems to me a bargain. But who the hell am I, right? Because i no nothing about purchasing SLR's, it being all fancy and cheaper than what i've seen others to be, might not mean much.
What i do know is that i want a REAL camera, semi-pro to pro--none of that pick-off, wanna-be shit. I can't afford to upgrade every other year so I need to get what I can get NoW while i can afford to get it. Ya feel me, Jennie-baby?
Bottom line is I need to talk with the professionals! I NEED you! You're my resource. Advise me, Resource! Guide me, Resource!
Thank you for listening to my rant. I hope i haven't scared you. How were the weddings in February? Talk to you soon.
Ken
And she hasn’t emailed me back. Secretly I want her to direct me to something cheaper. Something just as nice but something even cheaper. I even checked on ebay for the camera and it was still pricy, and the sales I saw on ebay had the camera but without the lens. ARGH!!! I want this camera. ARGH!!! I want a camera… but this camera would be nice. Maybe Jenn's outta town...
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
D-man and the Munchkin Heels
Yesterday turned out perfect. I got to the clinic, they called my number and Low and Behold, I’m AidlesS! So now I can cut my wrist and bleed all over the children and only have to worry about staining their Girbaud because I, Ken Robert Williams am Aids free. Completely without aids!
I called RomiE immediately, who had gotten worried that something might have went wrong, but I’m negative. The counselor at the clinic showed me the little slip of paper, pointed to my name and showed me where it said I have no HIV causing antibodies in my blood…or something to that affect, and then said, You’re negative. I cried! I wound up texting DaRRyL the good news…and what I love about DaRRyL is that he responds to everything very DaRRyL-Like. I just never know what DaRRyL's gonna say and just when I think I know him and he’s been as innovative as one can possibly be, he spins his little head like a top and clicks his little munchkin heels and reminds me that DaRRyL isn’t one to be figured out. I love my D-man.
I called RomiE immediately, who had gotten worried that something might have went wrong, but I’m negative. The counselor at the clinic showed me the little slip of paper, pointed to my name and showed me where it said I have no HIV causing antibodies in my blood…or something to that affect, and then said, You’re negative. I cried! I wound up texting DaRRyL the good news…and what I love about DaRRyL is that he responds to everything very DaRRyL-Like. I just never know what DaRRyL's gonna say and just when I think I know him and he’s been as innovative as one can possibly be, he spins his little head like a top and clicks his little munchkin heels and reminds me that DaRRyL isn’t one to be figured out. I love my D-man.
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