Relationships and communication via arrogance and what am I saying? Vis a vis. Concurrently therefore. Relationships.

Thoughts are like galaxies.

That is the end of the simile, because my depth is not measured by my imagery, but by ... eff. I'm trying to be deep and I'm failing. At communicating.

Oh. That's what a lot of us do in relationships. And not just intimate ones. Every person we interact with, sometimes we don't say what we mean, or what we want to, or we say what we want to when it's better to not say a thing ... all stemming from the fact that we're right, sometimes?

Even when I'm defending my integrity by insisting that I, in fact, am not cheating, I lose by even addressing that. Because. It's not just another female homosapien this woman is worried about, she has her own fecal matter to be dealing with. Internal issues that require internal dialogue.

Internal dialogue that should not be started externally by someone like myself with:

"Are you retarded? Why? Does any time? I'm breathing? In the general direction? Of any XX Chromosomed? Big Bootied? Voluptuously curvaceous piece of? Magnificence? Whom I am currently objectifying? You get all defensive? And worried?"

It hit me while I was alone on the couch. Maybe ... sometimes ... it's not about being right ... but understanding ... where people are coming from?

Which is hard.
Because I'm always right.
Mader paker.

Don't measure your neighbor's honesty by your own. Mader Paker.

Honesty is an inspirational trait for people to have.

But. I would like to clarify. For every cousin. And aunt. And homosapien that I know that has done this. That you. Mother. F**)(*#*#@. Are not honest. You're effing mean.

I think you know the people I'm talking about too, because they say these vicious things to people that don't deserve it and call it being "real".

"You're a stupid bitch and I hate your dress. The red and green look horrible on you. You're like a melting snow man ... except you're still fat."
But cousin! Matios says aloud. You don't know this person! Why would you say that?
"I'm just being honest."

Bitch. Honesty. Is giving me back those $200 you took to pay the premium insurance bill you have on that whack ass car. It's answering questions with the truth, not lies, or white lies.

-- And why are white lies the good lies? The most *$&(&$ed up White lie I ever heard was "Move West, and we will not take any more of your land" circa 1600's.

The Chinese Lip Syncer

Hmm. So. I have said there's no such thing as ugly women. I never said there was no such thing as ugly children. Now. I'm not saying that there are, because children's open minds and Love for life and knowledge is fascinating.

What I am saying is that I was at Ikea with my sister and her roommates, and I saw a child with beautiful parents, and so, relative to the beauty of the parents, one might say that the child is ugly. But only relatively.

Unless you hate physics, in which case you don't have to adhere to the theories because what's true for me might not be true for you because we are diverse and we are trying to impress someone in our sociology class by acting like it's possible to be wrong.

Just kidding. This is very sarcastic. Eff. Sarcasm is whose ugly cousin? The child from Ikea? If Sarcasm were uglier than that child then wow. How would that even be described?

If a metal sphere passed over the Earth every thousand years and you had a feather to hit the sphere once, and eventually the sphere turned into a pebble, whatever time that would take is only a fraction of the ugliness Sarcasm would have to be to be uglier than this child.

But there is a beauty in ugliness. Can't we just be fascinated by it? When we see the Grand Canyon, we are in awe, speechless, moved by the silence. But if someone's face looks like a canyon, then they're ugly? But can't we appreciate their canyon like face too? Kn'amsaying? Mader pake? Proper English? Fear of not being considered Black enough? What?

In either case. Look, United States of America, remove the plank in your eye before you go around trying to flick out a speck in our Chinese brother's and sister's. Because on the real, as opposed to being on the fake--like a man-made island, or saline implants--, once you read Seventeen and People Youth, and some of these Vodka commercials, you're making our children feel ugly.

And what's worse about our children feeling ugly is that they have a lot more time on their hands to worry about shallow things. So then they go crazy. Eff. And Fathers. You effing idiots. Tell your daughters you Love them BEFORE they enter high school ... because then they go to college and ... start ...

...

Taking creative writing classes and writing about neglect ... or ...

Kn'amsaying. You already know.
Don't act like you don't.

Pills. Are. Not. For. Stabilizing. Emotions. They're. For. Psychotropic. Reasons. Just kidding.

I have known many people in my lifetime that have gone through many things in their lifetime, and as it is with most of us, sometimes those things are bad. And as they are bad, we are consequently affected by these happenings and our bodies and minds react to them in ways that may be different than other people's reactions.

I had a homie who would drink orange juice when he was angry. He was addicted to it like one might be to alcohol. He would get antsy if he couldn't get his orange juice intake to calm himself down.

That's a weird reaction, but it's not really destructive, so it's okay.

There are other people that cry though, a lot of us actually, most of us ... all of us. And it strikes me as odd that our culture has developed ways to deal with the crying by treating it like a disease ... like the reaction to a tragedy is wrong ... like reacting to a death or an addiction or a deception or a disaster is something that needs saving from. Like our reaction to a disease is the disease itself.

What are we trying to sanitize? The symptom or the cause of it? IE: Before getting kids in single parent house holds pills to deal with whatever they might be dealing with ... why not ... teach us how to communicate with each other so that dirty dishes doesn't turn into you're fat and your mother's a bitch?

No. I'm opening the door. And paying for dinner.

For any one, don't be sexist.

Sometimes, when I'm not over compensating for my insecurities while doing 4,080 consecutive push-ups butt naked on a surf-board in the middle of a lake with a dragon-slayer sword and a glass of wine balanced on my nose, I like to open doors for people.

It doesn't matter who, if there's a door that needs to be opened, I'll do it. Do I let the fact that they're pressing charges for trespassing affect me? I'm glad you didn't ask, because no. It doesn't.

Of course it gets me in trouble sometimes because it was someone's bedroom door, and I didn't know them, and I was in their house and they wanted to know how and why I was in their house, but they still appreciated the gesture. I was being sincere.

Often times, I will hear my fellow XY Chromosomed homosapiens saying "I don't know if I should open a door for a woman, or offer to pay, or wax her eyebrows for her, because some will appreciate it and some will be offended."

How could that possibly be worked around? These are nice men trying to be sensitive to the fact that women have faced institutional and social constraints on their mobility, so they want to be understanding, while at the same time being the chivalrous man that people think is dead.

What we as human beings need to start doing is: be considerate of others. Opening a door is nice, but if the motive is to prove how gentlemanly one might be, it doesn't matter because it doesn't really mean anything.

Don't just open doors for women. Or pay for their dinners. It plays too much into power-struggles any way. Open doors for every one. Pay for friends' meals. That way you're not just singling out our female counter-parts, and then it's more sincere.

Yes you can take me out to dinner. And pay for it.

As appeared on Thoughts of A Balanced Man

Weedsmokers that wear organic cotton

You might be thinking I’m talking about those bare-footed Northern Californias who walk around eating berries from trees and are destroying our planet by eating it just so they can say they’re vegan … and act green. Effing liars.

But I’m not. And I’m just kidding about calling them liars. And I go off on a lot of tangents, I just realized for the first time in my life. You know … I’m really glad I can open up to you like this. It feels like … you understand me, you know? Like you see the real me.

Because there is a fake me, he stole my identity and talks to people and they think he’s me, but it’s not, it’s the schizophrenic side of my split personality. So. The hippies who wear organic cotton.

Or any one that doesn’t wear Nike because the shoes are made in sweat shops. I’m just as pissed as everybody else is about the fact that it costs 3 dollars to make a shoe, and I’m paying no less than $82 plus tax. I want to fit in, kn’amsaying, but being a conformist gets expensive. They should kick those effing savings down to us.

But, the sweat-shop ordeal, where people are enslaved and paid 5 dollars a day, no bathroom or lunch breaks, all beaten with whips and held at their machines by machine guns. Wow. It’s intense.

In my research around the world, these same people are little potheads. Irony of all ironies. It makes my feces more concentrated. I used to be under-rated. If you know what I’m referencing by that I will give you a dollar.

Just so you know how weed gets to this country. Its grown on plantations, then cartels go into villages and take all the people and make them pick the leaves at gun point, and if they don’t they go to their families and cut off their hands, come back to the person that refused and make them pick.

Then they pay corrupt officials off, ship it North, and it gets to our country. So. If you don’t like sweatshops, stop smoking weed. Please.

Father forgive me.

So. One day, my pops was taking my sister and I to church, just to drop us off because he doesn’t need to go to church to prove he has a connection with God because he mentions that when I don't ask. And I wanted to remind him that I didn't ask, that he was in the driver's seat for a reason, that he should keep his mouth shut and drive while I sip my virgin daquiri. Sike. I don't mean that. I Love him.

Ye scurvy knaves. What? He's smoking his cigarette like men do when they're nervous or regret children (vis a vis: Matios), but it's balanced by the presence of my sister because she has a promising future even though she laughs at her brothers jokes ... because ... dey r funi.

Graduation time was coming up, my liver was blacker than our power. Or his skin. And since I was leaving for college soon, I wanted to confess to every thing he might be disappointed with ... that he didn't know.

I wanted my right hand to wash my left. I wanted to be clean like Pontious Pilate. I wanted to bathe myself in truth.

So on the drive I admitted to the following:

I smoked weed extensively in elementary school
I got drunk for my first time in 6th grade
I used to steal his cigarettes in 3rd grade and smoke them
I used to take his Old Spice After Shave so I could douse toilet paper and light it on fire.
Once I put the paper inside the bottle and lit it and ran and it exploded like a bomb. Shout out to Yvette, she was right there with me. It was probably her idea.
I drove drunk. Many times. Knowing that I shouldn’t have.
I’d driven without a license.
I’d driven drunk many times knowing that I shouldn’t have without a license.
And I respected women.

But the strange thing about fathers is that even when they lose hope, they still have hope. And that's a beautiful thing. But he didn't believe me. So. Now it's on the internets so I can't run for president because they'll have ammo.

UNLESS WE ACCOUNT FOR THE FACT THAT PRESIDENTS ALSO:
Smoked weed, did cocaine, dropped bombs AND had children with their SLAVES! KN'AMSAYING!!

In which I case do have a chance since people do change and aren't slaves to their pasts. In which case you may call me Mr. President. In which case I do not want a secretary. No matter how "ugly".

I want to cry world. :(

Oh. Emm. Gee. You will not believe what happened. So I was like, totally spying on my sister the other day, you know? Because I was like, eff that, she’s been totally watching The Hills and like, I know how upper middle class white people get bored and do weird things like ecstasy or each other’s wives, and it’s just really strange you know?

So, I totally found out her facebook password, and was like, totally reading through her messages, and I found out absolutely freakin’ nothing about her. Oh. Emm. Gee. She’s so scandalous. What is she trying to hide, you know?

I could’ve been like a good brother and been like well whatever, maybe I should trust her because she’s never given me like a reason to not trust her, you know what I’m saying? But then I was like, ugh, totally not, because then what would I have to talk about with my girls when we’re at Starbucks drinking whatever that bitter dark water is with chocolate specks in it and whip cream and like, totally talking about how good it is. When we all know we’re lying.

Any way, to like make matters worse, I see her in a picture with some guy. And like, I know that it’s me, but still. Oh. Emm. Gee. How could she have a picture with a guy on her facebook? That’s totally like scandalous.

So then I go onto her myspace and it turns out she drinks. WATER. I know right? Not even the expensive kind. Like … the regular … whatever kind. I don’t even know what brand it is because it’s just that poor. Oh. Emm. Gee. I don’t even wanna talk about this any more. I feel sick. Good bye.

Oh. And just kidding.

Is mommy trying to poison me?

Or us? Is every mother still bitter about the fact that we destroyed their vajajays when we were born? I didn’t plan to become a human being so I could bungee out of the coola melon canal with my umbilical cord, all blind and angry ‘cause the amniotic fluid was all in my eyes. I didn’t mean for her to not be able to walk for 12 weeks.

My mother made some food … as … human beings often do for their children … and then she said “Here m’ijo, eat.” And she slapped some tortillas in the whicker basket type of thing with the white cloth, and she set a little jalapeño on the side.

Little did I know this dish was called Pepian. A cultural Guatemalan cuisine otherwise known as Destroying Your Ass Hole. Or Dyah, for short, which is the Latin root from where we get Dyahrrea, or diarrhea as trasnpodulated into English.

The one good thing about diarrhea though, especially the kind induced by that lava soft thing my fellow frijoleros call food, is that it gives me a lot of time to think. To just sit, with that freezing porcelain seat on my bare ass, giving my goose bumps that last 5 minutes, making my booty hole tense up so it takes longer to get the doodoo out.

But at least I think, and remember how good I have it in this country where I get to used quadruple ply cotton moisturizers with agave mushrooms and aloe vera, instead of corn on the cob like the old school finqueros. What you know about that. That’s a statement not a question. Kind of.

Africans don't like American Blacks?

Is this true? I tried to take a survey, but no one would talk to me because I was standing naked with a clipboard and a pirate hat on my head. Just kidding. I wasn’t naked. I was wearing all black. Badum psht. You would think that was funny you racist fisherman.

Not that I have anything against fisherman. I love fish. I love Man—as in humankind. Yes I had to clarify. No I’m not homophobic. And Catholics don’t worship Mary.

But, there is this tension between our negro communities. Africans come to this country all multilingual, speaking proper English. Americans feel like they’re looked down upon by their fellow melanin enriched homosapiens.

It has been said that Africans will sometimes say Americans have no culture, which seems a little insensitive, considering the history by which those Americans made it to this country, and the fact that they weren’t considered Americans for some time, they were considered 3/5 Americans for some time, they were considered American trash for a lot of time.

But then the Americans say the Africans are spear-chucking elephant herders whose women have long titties and walk around the coco-shell necklaces, ignoring the fact that Africa had been a center of civilization, mathematics, sciences and intergalactic mathematics until they got gunned down by cannons.

But. Whatever. I just want my MTV.

I was high out of my mind once

When I was a young negro, breaking laws and inhaling tetrahydrocannibol through a four foot bong, I would like to sit at a computer, turn the speakers up and play beautiful music.

One of these times I was contemplating life and the nature of thoughts—would I be able to think this thought if I didn’t have language? Would the feelings be the same? Would I understand myself if I was thinking with no words? If words represent ideas, what are those ideas? How are those expressed? Why was my ex so jealous? I really liked her.

So as I sat there, and felt like my ears were melting out of my nose, and thought for a split second that maybe I was having a heart attack because my heart was beating a little crazy … I looked into the trash bucket and saw all the phlegm I coughed up from the nastiest hit … and I was happy I didn’t throw up.

But then some song came on. It was by Muse, I recognized the singing but I never heard the shiznit before in my life. It was like I got shot through space on a rocket of Love. I saw Jupiter where girls were because they’re stupider. I saw Mars where I wanted to go to get more candy bars.



I saw Pluto … and thought … my that is a beautiful rock that is no longer a planet. And I disappeared into the abysmal void that was an ocean of my emotions. I’d never been so high in my life. Your future president was there some where.

I obey the law now though. I don’t smoke.

I really like oranges

It turns out. I really do. When I was just a little negro with a big head, running all lop-sided and tripping over chairs and tree branches because I could jump so high because I am obviously black which obviously automatically makes me way more athletically available to be that which is the because if you just go and words get typed with numbers. What?

I really like oranges. Citrusy. Sweet. They’re bomb. Sometimes I’ll get a little plate, pour a little tapatio on that bad boy, dip the orange in the tapatio and eat it like a lizard tongue. Sike. I don’t eat lizard tongues.

My favorite part though, is to sit by my sister while I peel it, and wear bullet-proof, UV resistant, stainless steel, GPS monitored safety glasses so that my cornea doesn’t get burnt by the juices. But she’ll get blinded by the orange’s blood, because she is a murderer of fruit, and should therefore feel the pain of a poor orange being skinned alive.

Or maybe it’s dead, since it’s already been picked off of a tree. There’s so much you can do with oranges. You can squeeze them into orange juice. You can also give people paper cuts and squeeze the orange juice into their cuts.

And when you have the juice! You can drink it! Or you can make the drink a tool. PUN INTENDED. Gahahahahahahahahaha.

Who are you really going to vote for and why? Doesn't any one really care?

There are questions that make up our universe that are asked only so we can answer them ... because ... we want to say them when being asked the same question in return as a courtesy.

Did you do anything exciting today?
What'd you do for 4th of July?
If you could (blank) what would you (blank)?
Who are you voting for?

I think it's important for us to remember that voting ... is ... a way of being active ... in the political process ... and sometimes ... some people feel neglected by that process, so to say "Get involved and you won't be neglected," is ignoring the fact that they have been neglected, and if the system they weren't participating in was neglecting them, then the people they would want to vote for wouldn't be running because trickle down politics ... does exactly that. Trickle down.

So to be considered MORE of a political activist, maybe we should, perhaps, by some great ... foreign ... elliptical ... ellipse induced mystery. Switch to. Fragmented sentences instead. Of three periods. As a metaphor. For.

Being active in your own community. So that trickle down politics turns into ripple effect. If you want more money for your schools, don't expect these cracker-ass (and I use the term for its brittle connotation ... not ... the white one. I Love you) mader pakers to do that when they're dealing with large scale things like ... budgets.

I accept your apology.
And no. No candidate can encompass my every concern.
And no. That is not in the spirit of Democracy.
And yes. I do Love you.

An extra seven cents.

You know, when I wake up in the morning and I say to myself “I’m probably going to get lied to today,” I don’t think of liquor stores and gas stations. I think of people at the pharmacies who say they can’t do anything about it, then get the manager called and threatened with legal action and get it done.

All I wanted was 300 mgs of tablets, not capsules. It was on the prescription. You messed it up, not me.

But my goodness. I just want to buy a bag of the new barbecue ranch tangerine dipped pork-rind nachos, and all I have is a crumpled dollar bill and hopes to quell the hunger pain until I get home and get the white rice and black beans with a jalapeño, tortilla and glass of cranberry juice.

I grab the bag that says 99 cents, I place the bag on the counter and pull out my dollar. I’m happy. The guy rings it up and says “$1.07, please.” $1.07? Homie, are you blind? Does this bag not say 99 cents?

Of course, they say it’s the tax. But why lie to me? Why get my hopes up? Why not, not put a price on the bag and have a sign that accounts for the bag and the tax? Taxes don’t jump around radically on chips. I’ve been buying them all the years of my life, and it’s always been $1.07. But it hurts my feelings to see the 99 cents.

It’s a big joke. Not even a joke. They’re just teasing. Who carries 7 cents in change but the people who only have 7 cents any way? They’re too poor to even afford the chips. While us upper-lower-class blue-collar FAFSA survivors with a dollar saved can’t even clog our arteries like Middle America.

This is preposterous. It even has my talking proper.