eat out.
I've been eating at more places that don't have heinz 57 ketchup. I love heinz 57 ketchup, but sometimes you've got to break away from that shit. Heinz 57 doesn't equal atmosphere, or necessarily great service. Heinz 57 doesn't equal live trumpets. Don't even get me started with ketchup packets.
My summer has been the kind of summer you have at my age: shiftless, hot, kind of fun. And even when I shouldn't indulge, nothing has made me happier than good meals with good friends.
The more I eat, the more I realize how far I've come from last summer. There's more beauty here now. I hope it's here to stay.
I'll always understand just how good heinz 57 is, but that doesn't mean I'll always have to use it.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
psa.
STOP BEING FULL OF SHIT.
You want me to tell you you're good
that you fuckin rock and you're the mothafuckin best.
You want to take pretty pictures and post those shits somewhere for nothingsake.
You want to eat mothafuckin chicken and watermelon- don't fuckin front- YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE NO DAMN VEGETARIAN.
You want to know what real love is- I do too.
You want to fuckin fuck me and forget me.
You want to be on some wine and cheese shit and want the whole world to cry for you.
You want to fuckin fuck me and deal with me when it's convenient for you.
You want a chick with ass straight hair flowing down her back so that shit can touch you when you sleep and remind you- DON'T EVEN FRONT.
You want badddd
baddddd baddddd
and all that will fill you is wants.
beacuse you're full of shit.
fin.
STOP BEING FULL OF SHIT.
You want me to tell you you're good
that you fuckin rock and you're the mothafuckin best.
You want to take pretty pictures and post those shits somewhere for nothingsake.
You want to eat mothafuckin chicken and watermelon- don't fuckin front- YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE NO DAMN VEGETARIAN.
You want to know what real love is- I do too.
You want to fuckin fuck me and forget me.
You want to be on some wine and cheese shit and want the whole world to cry for you.
You want to fuckin fuck me and deal with me when it's convenient for you.
You want a chick with ass straight hair flowing down her back so that shit can touch you when you sleep and remind you- DON'T EVEN FRONT.
You want badddd
baddddd baddddd
and all that will fill you is wants.
beacuse you're full of shit.
fin.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
[click click bang]
When the Y2K scare was all over the news, I feared for my life. I thought a giant robot would come out of the sky and doom us all to an analogue grave. My clock wouldn't work, my computer would eat my hand. Essentially, y2k meant that technology would break my life into little meaningless pieces. Thus, forcing me to pull out the colorful little abacus that my mom bought me way back when I was born probably. Worse case scenario? Long division. Long division and you could just forget about whatever future I thought I had.
Excuse me while I go roll my homie's mouse-y ball.
Now, in 2007, I sit here babysitting computers for my friends in the tech center so they won't log off after 15 minutes of inactivity.
15 minutes and if you haven't saved your work, that shit is gone. I know first hand, I had a whole study guide demolished yesterday after stopping for a brief chat.
BRBMMBRL
That stands for, be right back more mouse ball rolling.
Some people don't really believe that technology runs our lives. But how many times have I been assed out without cash? Technology and it's cute little magnetic strip has got me covered. I need a card for everything these days: transportation, money, logging into this soul-sucking tech center. You want to make a copy of something? Your ass better have a copy card.
So as I sit tuned into the melodic drone of the hundreds of machines around me, the glow of 0's and 1's illuminating my face, watching this guy directly parallel from me probably receive porn on his cell phone (defamation of character- I said it first), checking a new tab to see if gmail has updated from the 3 seconds I checked it before, and running in-between computers to make sure my friend's work is saved, I wonder: who's really in control?
TTYL.
-M.
When the Y2K scare was all over the news, I feared for my life. I thought a giant robot would come out of the sky and doom us all to an analogue grave. My clock wouldn't work, my computer would eat my hand. Essentially, y2k meant that technology would break my life into little meaningless pieces. Thus, forcing me to pull out the colorful little abacus that my mom bought me way back when I was born probably. Worse case scenario? Long division. Long division and you could just forget about whatever future I thought I had.
Excuse me while I go roll my homie's mouse-y ball.
Now, in 2007, I sit here babysitting computers for my friends in the tech center so they won't log off after 15 minutes of inactivity.
15 minutes and if you haven't saved your work, that shit is gone. I know first hand, I had a whole study guide demolished yesterday after stopping for a brief chat.
BRBMMBRL
That stands for, be right back more mouse ball rolling.
Some people don't really believe that technology runs our lives. But how many times have I been assed out without cash? Technology and it's cute little magnetic strip has got me covered. I need a card for everything these days: transportation, money, logging into this soul-sucking tech center. You want to make a copy of something? Your ass better have a copy card.
So as I sit tuned into the melodic drone of the hundreds of machines around me, the glow of 0's and 1's illuminating my face, watching this guy directly parallel from me probably receive porn on his cell phone (defamation of character- I said it first), checking a new tab to see if gmail has updated from the 3 seconds I checked it before, and running in-between computers to make sure my friend's work is saved, I wonder: who's really in control?
TTYL.
-M.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
There's a little bubble all of us are in.
It's only as wide and deep as we want it to be. The longer we stay inside, the more we dissect what we allow in. The more walls we build up.
The more fortification, the more comfort. But it's not real comfort. It's that I can't Believe It's Not Butter shit.
Well guess what
It's not butter. So what kind of idiot would believe it was?
I'm talking shit. It's the peach cosmo.
The day was unexpected. Now, at 3am, I can admit that it was unexpected because I've been caught up in the aforementioned butter bubble.
Feeling sorry for myself, wondering what my deal was. Holding myself up to other folks' microscopes and unfufilled with the findings.
I've been pysching myself into believing that I'm no good lately- no Amy Winehouse-o.
How can one keep goodness in? Keep goodness surrounding them? What is the secret to everyone elses smiles, and how come I see differently?
How come I always gotta be on some real shit. Do I not know how to like anything? Do I not know how to be happy? Am I setting myself up for self-sabatoge?
Most likely.
In the move to end such thinking, I've begun a search for goodness. All the goodness in the world. Colors, people, laughter.
Struggle isn't new to me anymore. It's something I must cope with. But if I want to do it right, I have to learn how to balance it with the beauty of life. Or else, I'll turn into a....turtle. Although I love turtles, and mine especially, I'd rather be a gazelle or giraffe, or flamingo.
Anyway,
Earlier in the day I did a show @ a block party. I need more feel good music. It has been decided. There are people in the world who appreciate my ability to be didactic. But if you were at a resturant and someone offeted you a choice in-between think and feel good....he average person is thinking of feeling good. Decision made.
Also, I'm scared to move. I don't know what my problem is. I used to perform plays in front of hundereds of people, on stage, by myself. Maybe I'm thinking too hard about it.
At any rate,
An unexpected adventure landed me @ step show w. Fonsworth Bentley. Because I am a conspiracy theorist, I do not believe that it was really Fonsworth Bentley on stage. My old best friend and I had a great conspiracy about Fonsworth Bentley in which we accused him of murdering Big to have a chance to get in good w. Diddy and steal the shine. I thought I told you that we don't stop.
So after that, and some other things, I realized that between the block party & the ice cream social, and the meal I had ingested at Chilli's my stomach was mad at me. There is a price to pay for eating your way to popularity.
Okay I'll finish this later because now I want to write a song. :-D
It's only as wide and deep as we want it to be. The longer we stay inside, the more we dissect what we allow in. The more walls we build up.
The more fortification, the more comfort. But it's not real comfort. It's that I can't Believe It's Not Butter shit.
Well guess what
It's not butter. So what kind of idiot would believe it was?
I'm talking shit. It's the peach cosmo.
The day was unexpected. Now, at 3am, I can admit that it was unexpected because I've been caught up in the aforementioned butter bubble.
Feeling sorry for myself, wondering what my deal was. Holding myself up to other folks' microscopes and unfufilled with the findings.
I've been pysching myself into believing that I'm no good lately- no Amy Winehouse-o.
How can one keep goodness in? Keep goodness surrounding them? What is the secret to everyone elses smiles, and how come I see differently?
How come I always gotta be on some real shit. Do I not know how to like anything? Do I not know how to be happy? Am I setting myself up for self-sabatoge?
Most likely.
In the move to end such thinking, I've begun a search for goodness. All the goodness in the world. Colors, people, laughter.
Struggle isn't new to me anymore. It's something I must cope with. But if I want to do it right, I have to learn how to balance it with the beauty of life. Or else, I'll turn into a....turtle. Although I love turtles, and mine especially, I'd rather be a gazelle or giraffe, or flamingo.
Anyway,
Earlier in the day I did a show @ a block party. I need more feel good music. It has been decided. There are people in the world who appreciate my ability to be didactic. But if you were at a resturant and someone offeted you a choice in-between think and feel good....he average person is thinking of feeling good. Decision made.
Also, I'm scared to move. I don't know what my problem is. I used to perform plays in front of hundereds of people, on stage, by myself. Maybe I'm thinking too hard about it.
At any rate,
An unexpected adventure landed me @ step show w. Fonsworth Bentley. Because I am a conspiracy theorist, I do not believe that it was really Fonsworth Bentley on stage. My old best friend and I had a great conspiracy about Fonsworth Bentley in which we accused him of murdering Big to have a chance to get in good w. Diddy and steal the shine. I thought I told you that we don't stop.
So after that, and some other things, I realized that between the block party & the ice cream social, and the meal I had ingested at Chilli's my stomach was mad at me. There is a price to pay for eating your way to popularity.
Okay I'll finish this later because now I want to write a song. :-D
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
|Start Snitchin|
I don't know what would surprise people about me. Is it surprising that I would watch Sponge Bob all day if I could? I don't think it is, I'm bubbly. Usually people can't believe I've had a turtle since I was in first grade, or that I was a phone sex operator and I'm writing a play about it. It's just a job, it paid my rent. What else? I'm a singer songwriter and Stedmond is my cousin, When I was a kid I was on Sesame Street and my pants fell down. I live next-door to heroin junkies. I'm just 19. I can't tell what would surprise people about me.
In-Class assignment. As told by me to this white dude on class.
He was supposed to try to mimic my voice. Topic...what would suprise people about me.
Journalism is neat.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
|We Gotta Build Our Rockets Stronger|
The hardest part of trying to grow up is trying to create some damn regularity for yourself.
Some sense of shit that always happens, regardless. Because if left up to yourself, by yourself, you'd let yourself go crazy. At least I would.
I've started to study in the kitchen.
I tried studying in all the other rooms in my apartment. [Like there are that many].
Where my futon is just has this destracting energy,
and my bedroom makes me want to fall asleep.
There's really nothing that draws me to the kitchen. That's the best excuse for not wanting to stay long. There are dishes that I don't want to wash. No tv. My kitchen chairs from Ikea aren't even that comfortable, and that says a lot about how I feel about kitchen-ing.
I've scheduled to take showers at 10 every night. This is Tuesday, that hasn't happened yet. Maybe Wednesday.
I'm making a lot of chai tea; I make it really strong.
Coffee gives me heart attacks. All the other teas get on my nerves. I don't want to drink something that tastes like flowers. I'll just eat flower.
Usually a cup in the morning, one at night. That feels kinda grownup like. I sit in my uncomfortable ass Ikea chair and drink chai tea while typing in a blog on my powerbook about my personal life- usually what all Ikea customers do.
All this is to say that, I really need rituals in my life. Little things that I can find solace in. There are 50 million things going on that I can't control. 10 million that I can and don't want to. But if I have those stupid little things I can do without thinking, the world will seem a more aight place.
I think my neighbor is dead.
It's hard having nice neighbors who are on dope.
He gave me a teddy bear once, and would always look out when I came home at 3am.
Well, he was probably really waiting on the re-up
But still.
There were a couple times I didn't see him for awhile, but not this long. Every time he would come back he'd have a new black eye or something. I'd ask him what happened, but I knew without knowing. Plus he knew I knew.
He wasn't out there. If you didn't know anything about drugs or the hood, you probably wouldn't suspect he had anything to do with either.
But he did,
and that's unfortunate, because he used to sweep around here and now the streets look like shit.
But the dope fiends come and go. One had a baby, and I thought I'd never see her again. I did. Just never saw any baby.
There's a light skinned one too. She always looks happy. But not in a good way. Her eyes look young, but never there.
There's an old man who wants to have breakfast with me. I've befriended 3 old men since living on this block. He is the happiest looking older man I've ever seen in my life. And never looks high. But there's no real good reason for traveling to the back block every time I see him outside.
He's really nice. Just on that shit.
It was warm today, which made me think of all this. Maybe my neighbor will pop back up like he hibernated?
I'll wait and see, but never ask.
The hardest part of trying to grow up is trying to create some damn regularity for yourself.
Some sense of shit that always happens, regardless. Because if left up to yourself, by yourself, you'd let yourself go crazy. At least I would.
I've started to study in the kitchen.
I tried studying in all the other rooms in my apartment. [Like there are that many].
Where my futon is just has this destracting energy,
and my bedroom makes me want to fall asleep.
There's really nothing that draws me to the kitchen. That's the best excuse for not wanting to stay long. There are dishes that I don't want to wash. No tv. My kitchen chairs from Ikea aren't even that comfortable, and that says a lot about how I feel about kitchen-ing.
I've scheduled to take showers at 10 every night. This is Tuesday, that hasn't happened yet. Maybe Wednesday.
I'm making a lot of chai tea; I make it really strong.
Coffee gives me heart attacks. All the other teas get on my nerves. I don't want to drink something that tastes like flowers. I'll just eat flower.
Usually a cup in the morning, one at night. That feels kinda grownup like. I sit in my uncomfortable ass Ikea chair and drink chai tea while typing in a blog on my powerbook about my personal life- usually what all Ikea customers do.
All this is to say that, I really need rituals in my life. Little things that I can find solace in. There are 50 million things going on that I can't control. 10 million that I can and don't want to. But if I have those stupid little things I can do without thinking, the world will seem a more aight place.
I think my neighbor is dead.
It's hard having nice neighbors who are on dope.
He gave me a teddy bear once, and would always look out when I came home at 3am.
Well, he was probably really waiting on the re-up
But still.
There were a couple times I didn't see him for awhile, but not this long. Every time he would come back he'd have a new black eye or something. I'd ask him what happened, but I knew without knowing. Plus he knew I knew.
He wasn't out there. If you didn't know anything about drugs or the hood, you probably wouldn't suspect he had anything to do with either.
But he did,
and that's unfortunate, because he used to sweep around here and now the streets look like shit.
But the dope fiends come and go. One had a baby, and I thought I'd never see her again. I did. Just never saw any baby.
There's a light skinned one too. She always looks happy. But not in a good way. Her eyes look young, but never there.
There's an old man who wants to have breakfast with me. I've befriended 3 old men since living on this block. He is the happiest looking older man I've ever seen in my life. And never looks high. But there's no real good reason for traveling to the back block every time I see him outside.
He's really nice. Just on that shit.
It was warm today, which made me think of all this. Maybe my neighbor will pop back up like he hibernated?
I'll wait and see, but never ask.
Monday, March 12, 2007
|Wild Emo|
Muse. I thought it was cute.
It's been a handful of times I've been called that. Never by women.
There was this fun little Parisian first-wave feminist named George Sand. I can never read her work without finding some preface about her life. "Romantically linked with Frederic Chopin, Franz Liszt, Alfred de Musset..." and other dead people.
I raised my hand in class one day and posed the question why the hell I had to know who she fucked in order to have a reference point on her theories.
Someone raised their hand back at me and claimed to have seen some sort of docu on her life. The movie portrayed her as being the muse of the the many men- most artistic, or of some social standing.
There are women that exist like that. I think I'm one of them. No eg-o.
It's one of those jobs you like at first.
"You're a muse for me"
Oh...cool, do I get health benefits?
No. Just think out loud, and be cute about it.
Then one day, probably a day like March, it hits you in a totally unrelated incident.
You're watching Before The Music Dies next to your friend and her boyfriend
he has his arms around her, and she keeps doing things that hit you like nails on chalkboards:
whisper whisper
cute face
kiss here
kiss there
more whisper
random laughter
You're not bitter. You're just confused because he does the things back. He's not distant. He doesn't just let her attack him with rampant affection- he does it back. You stop and think....these people like each other, genuinely.
George Sand was in love with some republican lawyer when she wrote a journal entry in which she argued with herself and her alter ego about how to genuinely reciprocate love in a society where women are deemed inferior.
This really isn't about me being a woman.
It's the give and take of it all.
How much love can you give away as a woman if you're deemed inferior to your lover?
How much inspiration can I give away as a muse if I have none to even move me?
This is confusing and you're probably confused.
It's fitting, because I am too.
I'm not a first-wave Parsian feminist.
I just think I know how it feels to be one a little.
Muse. I thought it was cute.
It's been a handful of times I've been called that. Never by women.
There was this fun little Parisian first-wave feminist named George Sand. I can never read her work without finding some preface about her life. "Romantically linked with Frederic Chopin, Franz Liszt, Alfred de Musset..." and other dead people.
I raised my hand in class one day and posed the question why the hell I had to know who she fucked in order to have a reference point on her theories.
Someone raised their hand back at me and claimed to have seen some sort of docu on her life. The movie portrayed her as being the muse of the the many men- most artistic, or of some social standing.
There are women that exist like that. I think I'm one of them. No eg-o.
It's one of those jobs you like at first.
"You're a muse for me"
Oh...cool, do I get health benefits?
No. Just think out loud, and be cute about it.
Then one day, probably a day like March, it hits you in a totally unrelated incident.
You're watching Before The Music Dies next to your friend and her boyfriend
he has his arms around her, and she keeps doing things that hit you like nails on chalkboards:
whisper whisper
cute face
kiss here
kiss there
more whisper
random laughter
You're not bitter. You're just confused because he does the things back. He's not distant. He doesn't just let her attack him with rampant affection- he does it back. You stop and think....these people like each other, genuinely.
George Sand was in love with some republican lawyer when she wrote a journal entry in which she argued with herself and her alter ego about how to genuinely reciprocate love in a society where women are deemed inferior.
This really isn't about me being a woman.
It's the give and take of it all.
How much love can you give away as a woman if you're deemed inferior to your lover?
How much inspiration can I give away as a muse if I have none to even move me?
This is confusing and you're probably confused.
It's fitting, because I am too.
I'm not a first-wave Parsian feminist.
I just think I know how it feels to be one a little.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
|Spring Break|
I'm sitting on my futon surrounded by a couple of empty chocolate milk cartons with cartoon cows on the front.
I just returned to glorious Philadelphia after a week-long stay in NYC.
My brain feels broken; but that's not a new development.
I had a Spring Break.
It felt less like a collegiate spring break, and more like the kind you take to keep from losing your mind. This is under my own pretense that collegiate spring breaks (via Beaches, horny kids, & the fun world of stds) are designed to ultimately help you along the path to losing your mind.
I'm living in a good age now. The Age of Celebrity Culture. Every week my mom calls me and tells me something new I didn't know about Britney Spears. I used to get mad at her. "Mom, you're way too smart to be talking about this crazy white lady so much". I couldn't really get why she, or anyone else for that matter would be so fascinated.
Then, I stayed in New York for a week and realized I was losing my mind.
Now, the neat thing about losing your mind is that the whole process is totally in and out of your control. At this very moment, I have decided that I'm losing my mind, but it's taken a while to get me here: hence, the things out of your control.
It's a long road. You make choices over time, and then you're walking down 34th and 7th one day trying not to get killed or kidnapped by African street vendors and you start crying. You look up at all the skyscrapers and you feel that they're too big. The hot nut carts smell too sweet. Stupid ass chicken on a stick smoke is all in your face. No one speaks English. You did not choose to live in this world.
You come home. You still owe your landlord rent. Your bathroom floor is soaked and you don't know why. A part of you has died literally, but it's a secret. You want better friends. You want to make better music. You like a boy and it is complicated.
You're really tired of pretending that everything is okay.
You are losing your mind, and you are not even famous.
Don't nobody care about no rehabs for you. No one comes out with a tray of oversized dark glasses for you. You are losing your mind before you even are important.
There are rumours that you are just growing up. You wish those people would just be quiet.
It's okay. You went to Sephora and bought too much new make-up and nail polish to distract you. At least you're still pretty.
Monday's coming. Your teeth are kinda straight.
I'm sitting on my futon surrounded by a couple of empty chocolate milk cartons with cartoon cows on the front.
I just returned to glorious Philadelphia after a week-long stay in NYC.
My brain feels broken; but that's not a new development.
I had a Spring Break.
It felt less like a collegiate spring break, and more like the kind you take to keep from losing your mind. This is under my own pretense that collegiate spring breaks (via Beaches, horny kids, & the fun world of stds) are designed to ultimately help you along the path to losing your mind.
I'm living in a good age now. The Age of Celebrity Culture. Every week my mom calls me and tells me something new I didn't know about Britney Spears. I used to get mad at her. "Mom, you're way too smart to be talking about this crazy white lady so much". I couldn't really get why she, or anyone else for that matter would be so fascinated.
Then, I stayed in New York for a week and realized I was losing my mind.
Now, the neat thing about losing your mind is that the whole process is totally in and out of your control. At this very moment, I have decided that I'm losing my mind, but it's taken a while to get me here: hence, the things out of your control.
It's a long road. You make choices over time, and then you're walking down 34th and 7th one day trying not to get killed or kidnapped by African street vendors and you start crying. You look up at all the skyscrapers and you feel that they're too big. The hot nut carts smell too sweet. Stupid ass chicken on a stick smoke is all in your face. No one speaks English. You did not choose to live in this world.
You come home. You still owe your landlord rent. Your bathroom floor is soaked and you don't know why. A part of you has died literally, but it's a secret. You want better friends. You want to make better music. You like a boy and it is complicated.
You're really tired of pretending that everything is okay.
You are losing your mind, and you are not even famous.
Don't nobody care about no rehabs for you. No one comes out with a tray of oversized dark glasses for you. You are losing your mind before you even are important.
There are rumours that you are just growing up. You wish those people would just be quiet.
It's okay. You went to Sephora and bought too much new make-up and nail polish to distract you. At least you're still pretty.
Monday's coming. Your teeth are kinda straight.
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