life is a series of curious choices.
Shout to being busy with doing things you enjoy doing. A weird sort of progressive therapy or something.
Both my parents have recently commented, like within the last 2 months, on how they could have done better jobs raising me. Coincidentally, I’ve been making up for wasted time as a lazy teen by studying more and taking advantage of my talents.
I haven’t read up on the FIFA scandal but I have a very general idea about what is going on. I’m not surprised by any slimy-ness. Professional sports are built upon the buying and selling of human bodies and talents. Really, it’s inherently immoral.
I haven’t posted up in the streets of foreign countries enough. I wish cared about documenting my travels, when I was traveling more.
I’m cheating on Baltimore w/ NYC this spring. Now to add L.A. to the chain.
Today’s weather forecast: corduroy shorts.
I wonder if there are any white people who support black owned and operated businesses exclusively.
Current necessities: veggie/fruit smoothie truck, pumpkin colored low-cut wallies, super lemon haze
From the outside looking in, I am a cubicle worker. From inside my cubicle, looking out, I am an inmate. These cubicles are very loosely guarded cell blocks. My follow inmates vary in terms of personalities. I will now describe two.
To my left-rare, I have a man who walks so slow, each foot drag seeming deliberate, I nicknamed him Eventually. Eventually has a rectangular box head — think Frank Grimes from the Simpsons but with more depth — and a short neck that somehow has the same width and depth as his head. His entire face droops, slightly exposing his bottom row of teeth. He looks like an old turtle. Eventually is also a mouth breather that often falls asleep at his desk. And when I say often, I literally mean it — every 15 minutes this guy is in Naptown. Snoresville. Propped against a street pole on the corner of Count Sheep St & Dope Nod Lane. You get it.
In front of Eventually sits Extra Bat-Shit, the cell block loon. She hums to herself, is most likely pass 50% deaf and thinks everyone is out to get her. The whole cell block is privy to her personal life because she is without shame LOUD AS ALL FUCK. If this was an actual unisex prison, I’m 96% sure she would sport a doo-rag. I have the (mis)fortune of having to serve weekend bids with Bat-Shit. It is the torturous cherry on top of the prison sentence sundae. No amount of chapel time can make it bearable. Unless, prayers for a drug mule go answered…
There are other inmates here but they aren’t as amusing. I’m sure I’m a weird character in someone else’s story. I’m probably the he-may-be-muslim guy. Who knows.
What to talk about? That’s a very important question when maintaining a blog, right? Yeah. When your response is I don’t know or the sound of silence, it makes it pretty fucking hard to maintain said blog. Welcome to the dilemma I have been facing. Its not that there isn’t anything going on around me. There are plenty of topics I could touch on. Expressing my views on global going-ons has never been a problem. It’s just lately, I have been in a mind state where the amount of fucks I give about things I could speak on goes from (insert numerical value) to zero in less than a nanosecond. Mustering up the small amount of energy it takes to type out a few hundred characters doesn’t seem worth it anymore. Or I just can’t define what the “it” I’m trying to assign value to is. Perhaps its the fact that expressing my views on things and not getting instant feedback is a mental roadblock of sorts. And that’s not to say this avenue of expression is about seeking attention and approval. But, there is something about sitting at a desk, typing your thoughts out to an audience that may or may not be there that isn’t as inviting vs physically being around like minded people who can comment on whatever opinions are shared. And whether its a cosign or a rebuttal, something is instantly gained during those interactions. And you grow just a little bit, or at least I do. Seems like I did have something to talk about after all.
I enjoy cooking. Every aspect of the process of creating a meal brings me some sort of fulfillment, even washing the dishes. However, there is one thing that tends to be a small burden. Long sleeves. That’s two things, isn’t it? Fuck it. Seriously, trying to chop herbs or flip some meat or scrub a pan (rage level at max) while rocking long sleeves drives me crazy. Ok, lately, I’ve had a ritual of sorts when it comes to my evenings. Small meal/smoothie, gym, come home, snap the bong and then cook. The hoodie stays on after the snap, because, well, I’m too fried to even think about putting on appropriate cooking attire. I could easily make alterations to my ritual, right? Whatever, this is my story. Long sleeves. Pests. With that said, I feel a little for women who star in cooking shows. Women already have be glammed up just to be on camera. Standing over a stove in a dress seems slightly torturous. I’m aware its edited, but that’s not the point. The point (barely) is comfort.
If Nigella Lawson was your step mom, and you were at the age where your hormones are racing but you’re still inexperienced, how often would you try to lay your head on her chest? And have her read dessert recipes?
A face only your mother would love.
A respectable entry is in the drafts. I’m going to fix a sandwich.
I don’t have many regrets in the short time I have been alive. I mean, I MIGHT be able to count them on one hand. You live and you learn, right? Well, I really regret taking the job I currently have. It’s not fun. It’s not really challenging. The pay sucks 30 dicks. The people are boring, for the most part. The only good thing that has come from me taking the job was during the 3-4 months I worked the midnight shift, I probably did close to 70 sketches have have led or will lead to designs that will either be used as promotion for our brand or put on merchandise. Something about being awake while the sky is dark and the moon is visible had my creative juices bubbling over. Other than that, BIG ASS REGRET.
I was talking to my mother sometime last week about how I hardly ever go out and how I’d rather lamp in the crib, throw house parties and avoid the madness that is city night life and bar hopping. She started sharing stories of the parties she would host with my grandmother and how at one of the gatherings, I hijacked a camera and took pictures of people. They were good pictures according to her. I couldn’t have been any older than 4 so I wonder what happened to that…need to visually document shit between that time and around 6 years ago when I purchased my first, and only, dslr? Or was it less a need and more just me being young and finding a new toy? I don’t know. I just see artists, that appear to be around my age, either making a name for themselves or fully on and popping and I wonder what could have been if those particular interests of mine had been nutured…?
I thought I had more but this Orioles’ game took over. Maybe the rest will come rushing back later.
So recently, I guess within the past 3 weeks, I’ve been downloading and listening to the church of what’s happening podcast, hosted by the hilariously authentic Joey Diaz. He is definitely not your average comic. Street dude who just talks about his life, heavily laced with profanity and is always stoned. If he’s not taking tokes, you can hear the paper from a chewable being handled. Anyway, I’m listening to episode from 6/29/13 and they’re talking about smuggling drugs and guns on planes back in the day, pre-911 of course. I’m thoroughly enjoying this, as they recall exactly how they felt. I may or may not know how they felt, on minute scale though. You should check it out if you’re reading this. He’s got a set at DC Improv in August and I can’t wait, might take my pops.
(5 days later)
I really have no idea where I was going with the above paragraph. I don’t even think it was leading to anything, I was just rambling and probably a little high. But, there had to have been a purpose so I’m just going to post it.
Currently on my 2nd cup of coffee. Where did the term ‘cup of joe’ come from? Who is joe and why is he so closely associated with coffee? I spent most of the weekend blazed, and a little frustrated by my inability to get Illustrator to do exactly what I wanted it to do. I seem to have completely forgotten how to move an anchor without moving the entire layer. GRRRR. Surprisingly, the tree actually gave me the patience to keep going back to my laptop to try again and again. Well, it’s not at all surprising to me. I’ve expressed on numerous occasions that cannabis has helped motivate me to get things done, or to at least give it a whole-hearted effort. I question the federal government’s intelligence when it comes to the legal status of cannabis. I want to ask an extreme anti- pot politician, “Is your problem really with weed or with the problems stemming from it’s illegal status on a federal level?” “Have you ever done a bong rip and then ate a 2 gram piece of space cake? No? I didn’t think so or you wouldn’t be against it.” I’ve become such a proponent for cannabis over the course of only 3 years. Maybe 4. I don’t know, who gives a fuck about time though? Nobody should if you ask me. And since you’re here, you clearly did ask me.