(Top?) 5 things I have lied about in the past 23 years.

In the spirit of NoSafeNovember, I thought I would list things that I am not safe for hiding from the public (aka my pals).  Thus, I have decided to end this year's #NoSafeNovember by calling myself out on my own shit. That's right: Open season on me. Here are my top 5 things I've lied about my whole life and have picked now to confess about them.

5.There are very few Final Fantasy games I've beaten without "cheating."

Listen, folks. I am NOT a gamer nor have I ever claimed to be. In fact, if asked, I would say "no, I am not. I  do play games but not often." That, I have never lied about. "Gamer" is a fully time job and requires finance I just don't have.  Some people assume that I am a gamer just because I am all up in Japanese pop culture--I watched anime, read manga and played through Final Fantasy. Oh wait... about that. Yes, I have told the masses I have played FF 7,8 and 9. And I have. No lie. However, completing the games in a consistent go is something I rarely do. But WAIT! Let me explain. I have a brother only one year younger than me who I (was forced to) share(d) everything with--not limited to memory cards, games, clothes, cds, rooms etc. So, as if cued, my brother would get the urge to delete memory to free up months of space for games he'd only play once. This was almost always right before I fought the final boss or made it more than 3/4 of the game. Imagine how monotonous it is to retrain Chocobos, dodge lightning bolts, go through mazes, click through dialogue, rewatch Yuffie be dumb, Squall be emo, Zidane be awkward and Selphie be useless. Mind you, I am not talking about replaying a game for nostalgia. I mean putting that damn movie right back into the DVD player and watching it all again. But instead of a movie, its a 40+ hour game. Plus, you already know all the spoilers, plot developments and cinematic moments. So, I would just ask my cousin if I could copy his memory to my memory card and start from where he left off. Except, by that time, I lost motivation. Not to mention I--and everyone else on the whole internet that grew up in the late 90s early 00s--know the entire script to those games. Seriously, I could tell you what happened from 7-9 without skipping a beat, including the ending... So N'yeah!


Tell me one thing she did that rocked and I'll apologize.

4. I Loved Sailor Moon as a kid, but not for the reason I lied to you about...

If you and I have had this conversation, it went like this: "Yeah, I loved that show's animation. It introduced me to Japanese animation. I didn't see any other cartoon with that kind of animation. It was so unique for me at the time." None of that is a lie. It was different from anything I was watching at the time. But, the real reason I liked it was because I was an 8 year old boy who loved to see those Sailor Scouts kick some ass and enjoyed the romantic themes just as much. No, not second to the action.: JUST AS FUCKING MUCH. Equal, I tell you! Equal! Of course now, after growing up and being introduced to taste, I can honestly admit it is trash. Cute, but trash. But I am going to be honest, they've announced a remake of the series and I will most definitely give it a chance. My only two request is that it better not have nearly as many unlikable characters as the original or be nearly as stereotypical. In other words, it better be a different show.

In the name of the moon, be less of a brat.

3. I dig Alan Moore but...

I don't really enjoy some of his works quite like the rest of the world. For those who don't know who he is, he is the God of creation everything comic books. You may have heard of the films V for Vendetta, League of Extrodinary Gentlemen and Watchmen. I really do like his works, but that's the problem: I like  them while the world loves him. People foam at the god damn mouth when you don't shower this man in your body juices after you have had a Moore-experience. I know someone will cry when they read the following truth: I've never gotten the oh-so holy erection while reading his flawless, divine, timeless, epic, hair-raising, life-changing, stories. I saw V for Vendetta when I was a high school student and loved it. I didn't know it was a comic book first until I went to college and read it. But something very peculiar happened when I read the comic book: I read it like a comic book and not like the ancient Rossetta Stone. When I discussed this with the Alan Moore fart collectors--I mean, Alan Moore fans--I realized my reading experience differed from there's greatly. I talked about it without crying and I said "I liked it." Oh boy was I the black guy at a Tea Party protest. They asked me if I noticed the theme of "5" hidden throughout the comic. No, I didn't notice that. I was too busy counting up all the fucks I never gave about those details. (Note: there were a total of FIVE fucks I never gave if anyone's curious.) Later, I read Watchmen--a comic I liked more than V for Vendetta because it was of the Superhero genre. However, I made the neanderthal mistake of reading this comic book like a comic book too. At the end of each issue, there was an article (essay) that contained extra back story to events that happened before the story. Here's my question: Why not just stop the self-indulgent bull and just put it in the story? They almost laughed me out of the room with a statement like that. I can hear it now "put a story inside the story? Like a regular old story? Psh... you're not an intellectual reader." Guess what, since I am in a good mood am just gonna break every Moore laprider's heart by revealing a bonus lie: I skipped RIGHT the fuck over those extra articles. I figured if it wasn't worth putting within the story, then it ain't worth reading. Fuck your argument. Moving on.

2. Jay-Z is fantastic but...

I don't think his older material is his "better" material as I have put on. Mind you, this isn't a lie I've told often or recently. In fact, it's something I realized about year ago when Watch The Throne came out. Now, I am not going to say the Reasonable Doubt--Jay-z's first album--is not a great album. I won't say it cause I love it too much. But, its a boring album to recommend for someone who doesn't appreciate lyrics over production. Not only that album either, but every album before Blueprint. Seriously, folks. I'm standing by it. I appreciate that older stuff because its an acquired taste. But ask me which albums do I listen to the most when I get in a Jay-z mood and I will name his most recent albums (minus Kingdom Come. Oh god, what a disappointment). Also, take in consideration that I have changed a lot since middle school and so has his music. For example, I  am old and lame now and can barely tolerate the word "faggot," most forms of misogyny and gang violence which are concepts thoroughly explored in his earlier music than anything Post-Beyonce (thank god for that). Not to mention Kanye West becoming his #1 producer for a number of the latter albums (thank god for that too). And let's be honest, Watch The Throne got me crunker than most other Jay-z albums. Ever. Cringe and deal with it. DEAL WITH IT!



^Yes, this happened. Unacceptable.

1. I tear up easily during movies, music, novels, comics, conversations, aw hell just about everything.

Now don't get all excited and start shouting rude things at me in hopes that I break down like a little Baby McCry Cry. Because it's not gonna happen. For some reason, its only stories that make me do this. For example, remember hearing about the controversy surrounding Marvel comics about killing off Peter Parker in the Ultimate storyline?  Well, in that link I just left is a video. Watch all of it. If you didn't cry you're way better than me. Cause I did. But, again, it only happens when I experience through a story. For instance, I can sit at a funeral of someone I love and be very very depressed. But not a moment before someone speaks about a funny incident or an inspirational action said person did before passing away do I start letting Niagra fall down my face. But it gets even better. Crying out of sadness is a lot harder than cry out of joy. I am almost always going to cry if I hear about or experience first hand a touching moment between folks. And I won't even cover my eyes in shame. I will just cry while you get your kicks in telling some bullshit tale you pulled out of your ass. But take heed: Execution is the key. You can't just be like "Hey man, I saw a 3 legged puppy and I just thought you should know about it" and expect me to break down in some crowded area. Hell no. Work for my tears! But now that I've told you, I'm going to expecting it. So N'yeah!


I'm done for now. I had fun with this one.

The Last Key Stroke

I had never hit the period button so hard in my life. At the same time, it had never been so difficult to press it. It felt like every fan, naysayer and Internet troll had joined together underneath the period button in effort to prevent fate. Unfortunately, being the writer of the series, the God of the world of "Time Travelling Salesgirl," I felt that the future could wait no longer. It waited for one and a half decades, from the end of my last year in grad school, through my first years working freelance in the comic book industry, a two-seasoned animated series--one that watered down the comic series to fit a younger audience--all the way to the end of my brief marriage with Coretta. A result that served as the last nail in the coffin for "Time Travelling Salesgirl." I made the ending a direct reflection of my experience and aimed to make someone, everyone, feel as I bitter as I felt. 

When I first started out, I told myself I would never be the writer that is a slave to the fans or a slave to myself. I wanted to tell a story. A real story. I pretended that a story was something divine and not of this world. It flew around the universe looking for a way to enter our realm from the fictional one. Once finding the appropriate storyteller--one who was focused and passionate enough to tell it--it would enter his or her brain and host them until the story was conveyed in the perfect manner. It was a writer's job to be inspired by emotion, not dictated by them. Yet, I broke my own rule and didn't care. My life was in shambles at the time. I just hit the period button, clicked the 'Send' button and went to bed in a bitter happiness. The kind of happiness a boxer gets after he steals an illegal jab from the victor. Only the victor was the universe around me. I smiled all night. A smile with tears for comrades. I didn't think once of the future that night. I basked in the bowels of depression, self-pity, misanthropy and single-mindedness. All was enemy.

That night, I dreamed every issue I had written of "The Time Travelling Salesgirl." My favorite, and most controversial issue, was when Diana, the salesgirl, Time Traveled back to Nazi Germany, early March in 1945--close to the date the last pages of Anne Frank's diary were written--and sold Anne Frank an M-16, hours before being discovered by the Germans. The only cost Diane charged was the pen she used for her diary. Not a day after that issue had hit the stands, I was invited for an interview at CNN. I went and was grilled alive and praised high at the same time by two political commentators. Sure, I knew there would be some that were offended by the content of the issue, but I was young and radical as college students are. I dreamed about my least favorite issue that night too. It was during the early 2000s when our sales were dropping to a low we hadn't reached in years. My Editor in Chief suggested we give Diana an anti-hero love interest. It resulted in making Diana a stupid romantic. I swear we made her cry in like every other issue. My wife complained to me just about every morning about change, calling my editor a "sexist cunt" and cited the change as a reason why he was single. Eventually when we sold more comics again, I killed that bastard off in the most absurd way imaginable and make a point to rarely reference him in the issues after his death. "Fuck 'em" my wife would sarcastically say whenever he was even loosely mentioned. 

In a lot of ways, Coretta was my biggest fan and harshest critic of the series. Sometimes, I would get paranoid that she was the one sending me hatemail when I did something to a character that was unfavorable. If you were to read any issues I put out before I met Coretta and afterwards, you'd notice subtle changes in Diana's behavior. When I met and feel in love with Coretta, I begin basing Diana--the love of the first love of my life--off Coretta. Interestingly enough, that marked to significant influx in comic sales. It marked the era in which Diana's presence had left the pages of a comic and landed on the back of every backpack, laptop carrying case and college hipster T-shirt in the US. Some called it selling out, I called it a proclamation of my love for my wife. 

It wasn't until the dead of that night I realized how important the series was to me and what I had just done to my wife's legacy and the message I sent to my fans. I had just murdered Diana out of spite for my wife's loss in her war with breast cancer. Diana's death was premature. Even as I walked away from the computer that night after sending that script to the editor, I thought of dozens of plots. Great plots. A story was contacting me from the realm of fiction. It chose me to host and I said "No. You will not enter this world because I am a bitter, bitter man." Coretta was still alive in that realm, breathing into me more ways to keep her relevant but I was so blinded my emotion to see it. This is a world the fans flee to to avoid the harsher realities of death and disease. Who was I to punish them for what they were already experiencing? I bet thousands of them were going through similar things and there I was slapping them in the face saying "you won't escape it. You have to feel what I feel." Then, the greatest epiphany hit me: The series was no longer mine. It was everyone's. And I would no longer stand in the way of it. That morning, at 5:00 am, I panicked. I immediately sent an apology to my editor-in-chief for the negative piece of shit I just sent a few hours prior. After I typed the e-mail, I sat up for the remainder of the morning, drinking coffee and watching "The Time-Traveling Salesgirl" cartoon series, sobbing softly. It was the first time I had attacked reality head one. Coretta was gone, I'm alive.  Diana was on life support until I got a reply telling me to rewrite the script.

When I had awoken from dozing off, it was mid-day. I had 11 missed calls. Each from the editor, Sam.He was one of my greatest friends in the industry and was the person that got me my job as a writer under his editorship. I didn't bother checking the messages and immediately called him back. He answered after the first ring. Before I could even speak, he told me that he had cried all morning over, what he called, "the greatest script in the industry." Before I could protest about not publishing that script, he told me repeatedly that he was sorry for my recent loss and understood its influence on the ending. Then, went into detail about what "made the script work." He told me the idea that Diana the Time Travelling Salesgirl dying of cancer would appeal to readers who grew up with the comic, since it had run for more than 15 years. He said that readers that began reading it in their teens are now well into adulthood and most likely faced such a serious issue or had cancer to. He paused and talked about how genius it was that the time travelling had caused cancerous cells. But what touched him the most is how Diana chose to deal with it. He called it "perfectly human." At first, he cited how he initially hated how emotional Diana the Salesgirl gets when she realizes she is dying and breaks the rules of set for the series by travelling past the time she exist in hopes of finding the cure in the future. He said that it made her seem too human which then he realized that its a reasonable reaction because she is a human and should be fairly held to those standards. Next, he stated that he loved that instead of trying to fight back against her fate after finding no cure, she vows to travel through time until it is her time to  pass. He told me that the script has been already sent to be penciled and colored.

After hearing all of this, I cried aloud. A big, universe shaking cry. A sight that J. Alfred Prufrock would envy. I heard Sam trying yelling over my sobbing. He asked what was wrong, he said he'd fly over if he had to. He warned me not to do anything stupid. He promised to call back the script. He threatened to call the police if I didn't calm down. He started crying too out of fear I was about to hurt myself. Finally, once I had started to calm down I told him that I can't end the series because it meant to much to me, to Coretta, to the world. I reintroduced my philosophy of realms of fiction which he had heard numerous times but was such a good friend he pretended it was brand new. The whole ordeal was the emotional release I needed to push me to the next step of moving on with my life.

A few months later, the issue had been released and I was back on CNN for the first time since grad school. It was a lot more pleasant and sympathetic since most of the world that followed the series knew what I had been going through. Of course, I received the usual death threats and hatemail but I just told myself it was Coretta, mocking and loving me from beyond the grave. Since the series had ended, I have been contacted by stories from the other realms begging to be written. I promise them life by writing scripts and sending them to the television series which has gone its own way from the comic's storyline as a way to pay my respects. I will never forget Coretta and I will always keep her alive. Long live Diana.

Stop Snitching...no matter how cute it is.

One of the worst things you could tell me when I Was a kid was "stop tattle telling." Why? Because when I was a kid and demanded justice for being wronged by someone else, it made me crazy. Now that I'm grown and deal with children all the time, it makes me crazy when 20+ kids all had an act of injustice and demand me to right the wrongs. It doesn't matter what I'm doing, what they have to say is far more important. Hell, I could be in the middle of performing a billion dollar six-hour surgery on someone really fucking important and they would barge in and shout "ooooh! Mr. Timothy! Carson punched me!" But guess what? Carson didn't punch you, did he? He touched your shoulder to taunt you and you want him to be in trouble so you exaggerate. Hyperbole senses are always tingling at the place. Never believe anything anyone says ever about anything because it never really happened or only "kinda" did but not really. But, man, is it cute.

Prime example:

"Oooooh! Mr. Timothy! Greg said 'Pysies'"

"...Okay, what does that mean?"

"I don't know, but he said it!"


That kind of snitching happens more than 10 times a day. Like, hold the fuck up! That kid is doing something I've never seen before. I'm telling Timothy right now at max volume while tugging his shirt, jeans and maybe poking his ass to get this man's attention. Naw, naw, naw! This here is important Mr. Timothy. If you don't fix this shit right now or I might be confused for like a whole minute.

Oh, and let a kid say the word "booty." I swear to good they will stampede like the first snitch gets a prize from Mr. Timothy. The worst part about it is that they all wanna snitch first and say it and the same time. What sucks is that some kids run and talk faster than others and at various volumes. So what sounds like "Hey, Mr. Timothy, he said 'booty' to me" to them, sounds like

" ooooh BOOTY! Mr. Timothy......Bootty. booooooooooooootyy HE SAid....Booty Boottyyyyyy Mr. Timothy
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooBootttttttttttyyyyMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmr. Tiiiiiiiiimothboootyy oooooooooooooooooooooAnd then he said boooty. ....Mr. Timothy

Mr. Timothy...Booty!                He said...... Ooooohhh Mr. Booty!! He said booty Mr. Timothy
                                        BOOTY ooooH! MR. BOOTY SAID 'TIMOTHY"


Oh my God. Do you know how scary that shit can be? You turn around, 7 kids are shouting booty and running towards yours! Then, when you finally get a full understanding of what's going on, you go "Guys, really? Is it that big o' deal?" But it is. It is a big deal because they're kids and you're an adult. Your biggest deal is car troubles, phone bills, unemployment, etc. Their big deals are Pokemon cards, How to draw Sonic the Hedgehog the right way and bad words. Finally, I broke

"Hey! New Rules: No more tattle telling! No more Snitching!"

Its official. I'm grown.

Villainy.

A week in review: Kids

This week will be remembered for its wide variation of emotions. Having been only two weeks after I graduated college, I landed a job--a very unboring one. I work at an elementary school in an after school program called Child Care. From 2 til 6 I supervise about 20 kids between the ages of 5-12. This job has very little to do with my major which is not a surprise because my major was English Literature. However, the job has given me a lot of interesting experiences and created a lot of stories. Also, I have learned to respond to "Hey, Mr. Timothy!" Thank God they don't say "Mr. Anderson" because that inspires that joke. You know the one....the one.

Unfortunately, that was the only positive experience I had this past week. Most of the  negativity of this week are things that I can't really go into on this blog due to privacy. So, I'll allow you to make something up. If you are not feeling creative or imaginative, I will provide a clip that will serve as a kind of "interpretative dance" to for you to decode the meaning.



Did ya catch it? Good.

The job never has a dull moment which is both a good thing and a bad thing. If you are not paying attention for a second, a child could do something dangerous. It sounds a bit extreme but its totally true. And if you don't believe me, you should take the 10 hours of online training we were all taking that showed us real security camera footage of kids who wondered off somewhere and got crushed by various large objects they thought it would be totally awesome to climb. If that doesn't terrify you, you're better than I. That shit made me wanna quit before I started. By the end of the 10 hour modules, one thing is understood: All kids will be raped, drowned, beaten and killed if you do not pay attention for only a split hair of a second.

On my first day, I tried my hardest to leave a good impression. Oddly enough it was easy. They loved me instantly. The only problem was...the feeling was kinda not mutual. Don't get me wrong, I have a soft spot for kids. I do. It's covered in barbwire but its there. I promise. My problem is that my soft spot for kids is not affected by their cuteness factor or any other adorable qualities, its more motivated by trying to keep them safe, alive and molding their morality. I really, really don't want anything bad to happen to this kids more than I care if they have fun or not... I know that sounds bad, but you try prioritizing "fun" with a bunch of kids varying in socio-economic backgrounds for just one day and see what happens. On the first day, I had already put 3 in time out and called a parent. It was amazing. I was all over that shit. I have absolutely no problem with the kids hating me as long as they are alive, safe and learning, I'm good. But, again, no matter how mean or strict I am, they still like me--which is another issue.

Since the kids like you no matter what, they quote you no matter what. They tell their parents about you no matter what. So, if I mumble "fuck these little assholes" under my breath...

I'll give you a real life example. During Quiet Time a kid thought it would be hilarious if he parodied  C & C Music Factory's "Gonna Make You Sweat," by changing the widely recognized lyrics "Everybody Dance Now!" to "Everybody Fart Now." Before I lost the children to fart-crazed chaos, I interrupted the laughter with "No, Nobody farts now." And man, did that back fire. They thought it was even more funny than the initial fart joke. From that point on, they repeated that for the rest of the day

"No, Nobody farts now."

"No, Nobody farts now."

Another funny incident includes someone I like to call "Michael Jackson Kid." When I first met him he introduced himself, grabbed his crotch and made a sound that resembled Michael Jackson. It was "he-hee!"  I held my gut in laughter because I thought he was some kind of genius. I mean, if I would have thought of that as a kid--to introduce myself, grab my junk, point vaguely to some direction and say "he-heee"--I would have been proud. However, what I learned about this kid is that he did it ALL the time. He did it when it made that absolute least amount of sense--not that there is a time in which it ever makes sense. MJ Kid did not know what the weather was like so he asked me and then did the crotch grabbing thing with the noise and the point. It had lost its charm. I made him quit.


All in all, it was a damn good week.

Childish Villainy.

The Inspirational Urine Specialist

After my graduation last week, I returned to Knoxville to find a job. You know, those things that are really tricky to find, especially with a vague degree such as English Literature--I have no regrets. I found one pretty quickly--an interesting one to say the least. The interview went fantastically and I am very excited about the position. However, my boss gave me a vast amount of paper work to fill out. The kind of paper work the requires me to run a billion Zelda-like errands to achieve very little. Like, "Hey, Tim. In order for me to validate these references, I'll need a new pen because this one has run out of ink. But I need a special kind of ink. The blood of a dragon should do fine. There is a dragon about 4000 years into the past. You can use this time machine to get there, but in order to slay the dragon, you'll need to get the Dragon-Slaying Sword which is in a whale's mouth at the bottom of the Pacific ocean. You'll need a submarine. Contact the military! They'll have one, but first you'll need to earn their trust by signing up and doing at least 5 years of service..."

I trust you get the idea...

The first errand I had to run was on the other side of Knoxville to a place called "Going Postal," which is where I would get my fingerprints. It was a 45 minute drive in 90 degree weather in faulty AC (which is the poorman's way of saying "hot air blowing air conditioning."). The post office was located obscurely off the side of a road and was an eye sore.  After I got the prints, I drove to my next destination which was about 25 more minutes of speeding up and promptly slowing down. When I finally found the drug testing center, I was 5 degrees hotter than I had been 25 minutes earlier. When I found the joint, it too was oddly located. Its like these places are not meant to be found. It was down a long back-road, filled with apartment complexes and small businesses. I parked and dashed into the air conditioned--I always assume any places is cooler than my car.

When my name was called to piss in the cup, I went down the hall and met the most inspirational pee doctor that has ever existed. This man was passionate about his interactions with is pissers.

"Why, hello, Timothy. Could you please stand to my right and place all of your things in the drawer. You may keep your wallet. Thanks you for understanding."

"oh, uh. Sure."

After I placed all of my things in the drawer he handed me a cup to piss into. He asked gracefully:

"If you don't mind Tim, I need you to fill it at least to the line. If you could do that, I would really appreciate it. And please, don't flush the toilet. Thanks again, Timothy.

"No problem sir"

When I was in the bathroom and not right in front of him, I pissed into the cup and filled it all the way up. It had a cap on it so I didn't have to walk like I had just gotten a cup of hot coffee filled to the rim and had to balance it without spilling it as I would make my way to my seat. No sir. None of that. However, I was paranoid that someone would accidentally bump me while running around the corner, causing me to drop it and look pretty stupid. But that didn't happen at all. I was worried that I peed too much into the cup since it was well past the line marked on it.

"Hey, I pissed Urinated into the cup but well over the line, I hope that doesn't complicate things," I said nicely. In hindsight, I don't know why I was worried about that. What could he have done I don't know what he would have done if it did complicate things? Splashed it in my eyes? Made me drink it? Rub my face in it? I digress.

"Oh, Timothy. It's perfectly fine. I am just glad you did what you thought was right. There are no problems here and is not a big deal at all. Now, if you could, would you wait here for just a few minutes while I test your sample and let you upon your way?"

I held back my chuckle at this man's infinite kindness and responded:

"Sure thing, sir. Thanks."

Once it was done, it was sent to the county and my quest of employment was over.

What a nice pee doctor.

10 Things you are not clever for noticing

Oh the thrill of knowing stuff about things. The moment we know, we grow...our egos that is. There is something oh so alluring about knowing more than another. Moreover, knowing something that no one else has noticed gives us that clever edge. We are all guilty of it! We all wanna be interesting, witty and funny (oh you know I'm all about wanting to be funny). However, quipness is like health care (until, perhaps, recently): only some people can have it and others just die trying to get it. Here is my list of things we all think we are clever for noticing but aren't.

1. Season 1's Yellow and Black Rangers

Yes. The black ranger was an African American and the Yellow Ranger was Asian American. Now when you get around your hipster friends that have the eternal boner for the 90s because, well, they have only been around for about 20 years and have nothing else to nostalgia-come over, just remember: EVERYBODY KNOWS

2. Bush and Dick

It's true. Dick Cheney's name has a massive, pulsating "dick" in it...Do you see it? Also, George W. Bush has "bush" in his name. You don't get it yet? Well, yeah, bush could be shrubbery but it could also be pubic hair! hahahahahahaahahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahahhahahahhahahahahahahahhahahhhaahhahahhahahhahahhahahhahahahhahahhaaha!

God, that's hilarious! The country was ran by a dick and bush for 8 years and only I, me, myself, alone has noticed that. Even with the whole world hating the shit outta these assholes--making pretzel and Halliburton jokes--I was the only one that caught that one. HA!---but seriously folks, that joke is as old as balls and too easy to make. Try harder.

3. Frank Ocean 

I was on Twitter and got into an exchange with G-unit sub member "Johnny Fastlane." He's not really famous or anything. Nor was it a long exchange. It was about Frank Ocean's debut album, "Channel Orange." A few weeks ago, Frank came out of the closet. Then, his first REAL, nonmixtape album came out--no pun intended. So, of course, the internet--especially Johnny Fastlane--got "clever." Johnny Fastlane tweeted: "Ever since Frank Ocean came out, he's been getting more airplay on the radio." The problem is...THIS WAS HIS FIRST ALBUM! HIS OTHER ONES WERE NOT CLEARED BY HIS LABEL SO THEY RECEIVED NO NON-INTERNET AIRPLAY! So, I responded with "Ever since Frank Ocean's album came out, he's been getting more airplay." So, yeah. Y'know: you're not original and whatnot. Oh, and on that note...

4. Adam and Steve

Yes, you are right. The bible does not mention "steve" and you are a skilled rhymer. People live by the ol' "its a saying; therefore, it must be true" philosophy. Oh and if it rhymes, you've got yourself a life-long creed! People love "sayings" because it takes the whole thinking portion out of an argument or retort, simplifying a larger issue down into a depthless nursery rhyme. Say it and just add water and you walk away from an argument champion of...nothing. I have sat in classrooms in which this line was thrown around oh-so smuggly and proudly as if they were the first. But rest assured, there is a clever response: " which means we should kill ever person not named Adam or Eve" and then promptly kill yourself, mentally scarring everyone in the classroom. 

5.Final Fantasy

" Man, its called Final Fantasy but they keep on making games." If you have said this, you have just joined the rest of the population that has said this...which is a lot of fuckin' people. Its got to stop. 

6. Black People and Obama

It would be a lie for me to say that there were not any black people that did not vote for Obama just because he was black. However, it would just as false and prejudice for me to say that most (or even half) of the Black people voted for Obama just because he was black. Here's why its false: Historically speaking, African-American votes tend to be Democratic 88% of the time. And if you are going to continue to ignore the facts, you should also think about Michael Steele--Black republican who awkwardly drops hip-hop references the leave all jaws ajar in embarrassment. If his ol' corny ass ran for president, he would most likely get a very low black vote percentage. Don't even get me started on Herman Cain. But, Why is it prejudice? Think about what you're saying: a whole race of people are so simple that they cannot make a strategic  political decision and thus, resort to voting based on browness. You thought you noticed something groundbreaking: "this color voted for this color and its all so simple!" But all you really did was say something some other uninformed person proudly and spitefully stated when an entire generation celebrated slight, ever-so-very slight progress in 2008.

7. Jesus was Jewish

I have heard so many people shout this at someone in a religious debate and act as if they have just awoken someone from the Matrix. The worst part about it is everyone has access to that info and for the most part knows that information. Usually, when I hear this trivia thrown about, it is used at the wrong time. Sometimes even when the debate is not the ethnicity of Jesus. I fantasize about shouting it myself during a random event. Perhaps the NBA finals. Like, when Miami wins the game I would shout, "Yeah, but Jesus was a Jew! BOOM! Neither of you win! I win the game! Give me my trophy, Bitch!" No, seriously, expect to hear that from me. I will never lose any kind of anything ever again forever. As long as I throw out that tidbit of info, I am forever a champion: Jesus was in fact, a Jew.

8. History and Herstory

Just a small amount of feminism can make any conservative man or woman shake with fear. Immediately, they feel powers shifting. A mention of women's rights and all of the sudden "But what about MEN's right! Women have all the power now!" and then...here it comes... "We aren't even learning about History anymore. Now it's HERstory." And then comes the little giggles and high-fives. Those that heard it, spread it to others and then we all pretend like we have never heard it before. Well, NO MORE, I say. From now on, I am going to be completely ignorant about it. I am going to ask them to explain it. Then spell it. Then say "but what is herstory?" Then, be a dick: "who's story? Where is she now." Then be a cunt about it: "Is there really more herstory than history? If so, give me herstorical names, dates and events. Then I will give you a long list of reasons why you are single--which has no dates or events." Lastly, I'll become my own hypeman and shout "OOOOH SNAP!" and then moonwalk away.

9. Chris Brown Jokes

I hate that I have to put this one up because I absolutely love Chris Brown jokes, because I absolutely hate Chris Brown. Not because he beat Rhianna. I've hated him since high school when had to "start by saying yoooooo!" But since I live by the philosophy "Nobody's safe," I must call myself out and say that sometimes I think I am the only one that notices that Chris Brown has a lot of hit records. Some major heavy hitters. He is constantly beating up the charts with his smash hits. I must say,  that man is talented, but I just can't resist making fun of him and his many big hits. I'm sorry. Its a bad habit.

... 

...

...

...

he beats women.

lol, okay. I'm done. Its not clever. I know. 

10.Grammar corrections in non-scholarly scenarios.

I am guilty of this, but I really don't like it. Correcting someone's grammar is not a bad thing. Correcting and then feeling wiser for doing so is a bad thing. Why do we feel intellectual and more intelligent  for enforcing a rule of language that has been enforced for centuries? To me, those who get creative with slang, idioms, metaphors and structure are the clever ones. I mean, of course it's important to know how English works. But most people that speak Southern American English, African-American Vernacular English etc. know the rules of the language and choose to speak it their own way. To "school" someone who is talking to you at a bar or cafeteria for using a "double negative" or creating some sort of lexical gap that no one has ever heard of but could start hearing just seems a bit douchey. See? "douchey" had to start from somewhere and is a wonderful word which could have never happened due to some discouraging anglophone. Stephen Fry argues it best. You really aren't being more witty than anyone else by telling someone something everyone already knows. In fact, its kinda dumb.

Quip Villainy

I should have just said, "Naw dude, Naw!"

On one of the many nights when I keep myself up by thinking of regrets, mistakes, funny shit and your mother, I remembered a funny freshmen memory. A kind of memory that you fantasize that you acted differently in the way you actually behaved. Kind of like not dropping that game winning pass in a high school football game, or not breaking up with someone that was well worth your time. Only this kind of memory was one that I let someone get away with not being safe.

Those who know what I mean by safe should skip ahead: Safeness is the state of imperfection. When one is not safe it means that one is liable to being insulted or teased. For example, Susie had to pass gas, so she thought she would lean to make sure no one hear it. However, unbeknownst to Susie, Michael saw and realized what she was doing. Michael then exclaimed, "Susie! I saw that shit! You ain't safe! Tryna lean fart and stuff!" Susie was ashamed. 

It was my first upper division English professor. The course was an introduction to Victorian Literature. The professor's name will be changed for the sake of privacy (and the fact that my friends have Googled my name and it has turned up on the bottom of the first page of Google images. The worlds getting smaller!) 

Dr. Blaine was teaching the class about the different forms of criticism that we would have to choose from when writing about Dracula. I remember wanting to complain about analyzing boringness that is Dracula for the second time within the same 3 semester, but I was trying to get my grown man on and resisted being a childish dick. Dr. Blaine gave us a quick example of each form of criticism. He started with Marxist criticism, which was looking at the novel from a economic perspective. He discussed Historical criticism, which was, I shit you not, viewing the book from a historical point of view. He went over Feminist criticism, but told us that it wasn't an option. Sad face. Then he said Freudian criticism and boy oh boy from that point on, he became very very unsafe.

First of all, he explained it for about 20 minutes longer than he should have. Now, I have done some research on Freud (and by "research," I mean I had some psychology major friends and asked them about him). Apparently, Freud's studies, although beneficial, were very flawed. And yes, I knew that the Dr. Blaine was not talking about Freudian criticism as a complete representation of his studies, but he was just talking about how looking at characters from a sexual perspective. However, instead of being sexual, he got horny.

Or dare I say....Thirsty

For those who know what I mean by Thirst, skip ahead.  Thirst is another word for horny but a more desperate  form of horniness. It means that you desire sexy so much that you are thirsty for it. Some people even say "Thirsting" or "Thirstin.'" If you see someone on Facebook that has a habit of commenting on the same people's photos, perhaps the photo has someone dressed scantly clad, then you would use some variation of thirst. For example, your best friend keeps writing "Damn, you fine" on the same chicks picture, it would be your responsibility as a friend (or a douchebag) to inform him and all Facebook users that he is indeed thirsty. Maybe by saying "Man, the thirst," or " The thirst is real out here today." If you want to get really clever you'd say something like "There's a drought in this comment section."

Dr. Blaine than began the thirsties, sexual observation of Dracula, nuns and even Jesus Christ. He informed us on the butt sex analogies in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, the Oedipus complexes in Dracula and even the sexualization of Jesus Christ. This, this is the moment where things just went off sanity graph.

Dr. Blaine started to explain how much of a sexual symbol Jesus is.. Sidenote: I am not at all religious. In fact, I am all about some Jesus jokes but Dr. Blaine was totally serious. And just not safe. He stated:

"Well, sex is all we think about. Just think about religion. Religion is very sexual. Jesus is always depicted on" the cross sexually. Look at his abs. He has a six pack. Jesus is never depicted fat or even slightly anything beyond skinny."

I thought that one was interesting, but kind of silly. I think its interesting that he is always depicted skinny (and I'll go a step further and say he usually is only one race.). I think it may be shallowness, but sexy? Moans and growns followed suit. Nevertheless he continued:

"And nuns! They are very sexual. They are 'the brides of Jesus' they don't have sex because they are saving themselves for Jesus. And, let's be honest. Nuns are sexy. I mean, when I see a nun, I gotta say, it kinda turns me on. You know?"

Oh shit! I know he didn't! Everyone had a light chuckle after that. Then, he moved on to Oedipus complexes. This is when it reaches the maximum level of unsafeness. He states:

"The Oedipus complex is a very realistic phenomenon. I mean, we've all had those dreams about our mothers. You know?"

At this point I'm trying to be openminded. I am like, 'well, perhaps thats normal. I have never had sexual dreams about my mother, but maybe everyone else has." So, I looked around the room to see some hands a' rising. To my surprise, everyone else was doing the exact thing. They thought " Shit, homie, he ain't talkin' 'bout me!" So, we all reached the conclusion that it was only him who was having silly dreams about nailing his mother.

And so, as I fall asleep I think, "I should have just said 'naw dude, naw. You the only one nailin' ya momz in deep sleep homie. YOU AIN'T SAFE! You thirsty as hell, fam!'"

And that is how you spell Villainy, folks.

G'night.

"Man, Ya'll some of the most nicest mo' fuckaz I've met"

There are moments in life that occur only for the sake of being a good story to tell later. Some of the most fascinatingly awkward situations I have had eventually become friend-unifying stories. With knowing that terrible experiences have the potential of becoming high quality entertainment, comes a bizarre form of optimism that encourages me to get into questionable situations (within reason). No, I am not sucking dicks for crack cocaine or assisting criminals in bank robbery's but I am a little less hesitant to do something boring or time consuming if it means I can make me the center of attention later.

Last night, I went to a friend's house with the purpose of minding my own god damn business with pals. But fate had other plans. As I sat with 3 other friends of mine in an Otaku-swagged apartment living room (an awesome one), there was a knock on the apartment door. Realizing that it was 1 am, the host approached the door with extreme caution. We stood not too far behind him. But we were definitely behind him. When we got close to the door we heard:

"Hey man, it's your neighbor."

When the door opened the room filled with the aroma of alcohol and...well...ass. The kind of ass smell you smell when someone has whipped there ass one time less than they should have and then proceeded to jog in shorts. THEN, tried to cover it with Axe but didn't have enough so he became depressed and drank. That is what it smelled like. I'm serious.

It wasn't a neighbor at all. It was a guy that stank and was sweating. Before the host could ask "Um...what do ya need," the stranger(who was not a neighbor at all) interrupted with

"Hey man, don't be scared because I'm black, man. I'm in desperate need of a ride. They took my car and, man, I got the sheet right here man. My car got towed man. I need a ride man. Please, I'm begging, man. I don't have any weapons man."

The room was uncomfortably silent. Then I volunteered to drive him, under the condition that someone comes with me (because I was actually kind of scared). I put on my shoes and then, as if he forgot I agreed to drive him, he began to sell us his story again, adding more plot--which no one asked for.

"Hey man. Don't be scared because I'm black, man. I don't got weapons man. I just got my ass whooped by some white boys man. Then this [other] white dude gave me his bicycle to ride because he felt bad for me man. I appreciate ya'll mo' fuckaz, man. Ya'll mo' fuckaz really came through for me."

I replied, " Dude, you don't have to do that. I'm gonna drive you. No worries."

As we walked to my car, he told me to take him to University Gables, an apartment not to far from where I was at that time. I began driving towards our destination and the man began talking even more and more circular than before.

"Man, my dad's gonna whoop my ass man. Them white boys kicked my ass man. But that white dude gave me his bike man. Ya'll mo' fuckaz really came through, man. I'm not from around here man. I'm from Clarksville."

Something was  odd about this young man besides his endlessly outrageous storytelling style. His stories were becoming more and more paradoxical. For example, he said he wasn't from around this area, but gave me extremely accurate directions to two different places I could drop him off at--all in the dead of night. Also, the white dudes and daddy's that were all conspiring together to whoop his ass was a pretty big pill to swallow too. However, the strangest part of the whole ordeal was his continuous referral to us (my friends and I) as mother fuckers.

When were almost to Gables, he began praising us in the most absurd way possible:

"Man, thank ya'll mo' fuckaz. Man, Ya'll mo' fuckaz really came through man. Thank you so much. Man, Ya'll mo' fuckaz are some good people."

When he left the car, he took his smell of sweaty, alcohol covered ass-farts with him. I got a story and did a good deed, despite my mockery of the man nullifying my good deed.

Whatever,
Villainy.

The Illogical Spider-Girl: Man, do I have a funny story for you

Working a midnight to 5 am shift as Desk Assistant has its perks other than being paid. One is that I get a lot of homework time. I usually knock out a good chunk of British Literature and Japanese assignments throughout the shift. Another perk is that the few events that do occur between 12-5am are over-the-top and memorable. Enter Spider-douche.

I was sitting behind Womack front desk for probably the last time, since I will be graduating later this summer. I was living it up. I brought my laptop to the desk (a policy breaker) and wrote some of my essays due in the upcoming days(its a shame that "living it up" means writing essays all night). Eventually, your friendly neighborhood Spider-douche tumbled into the lobby to ruin my living it up.

She stood in front of the desk, wide-eyed and excited.

"Hey, is there something wrong with the phone? Because I have been calling the front desk all night."

"Really? I have been here all night since 12. Haven't heard a ring. What's wrong?"

"Uh yeah, there is a big brown spider in my room."

I knew what she would say next. If you live in the Murfreesboro area, you probably know what she's going to say next too. I'll spoil it: She claimed it was a Brown Recluse. She said she could not sleep until that thing was dead. I sympathized for her. If I found one of those things in my room, its over--everything is over. I would withdraw from school and start seeing a psychologist. I am very disgusted by insects but I loathe spiders. I hate talking about them more than anything...

Guess what she did next.

"It was so gross. It was moving so quickly. I saw all of its eyes. Don't you just hate those things. They hid anywhere. They are determined to get you, it seems. Ew. I feel all itchy now. Don't you feel itchy? Yuck. I hate that feeling. I also killed a big nasty roach..."

Oh god she wouldn't stop. It was like she knew I hated it. My stomach dictated and so I followed. I had to drop a hint to make her stop.

"Oh...oh god...I want to throw up. I hate hearing things like that," I said very not so nonchalantly. I don't even think this is a hint. Its a dead give away. An open invitation that says "hey, fuckin' quit it."

"I know, right? Its so nasty. I crushed the roach and there is now, like, 12 inches of roach fluid across my floor."

Now, I am going to take a little time to describe the girl's appearance. I don't want to be rude, so I'll just say it was obvious she was ready for bed. She was not extremely attractive..at all...but that was probably because it was morning. We all have our days. I could tell this was her's. With that said, You'd think she'd be a little self-conscious--at least I would be.
Wrong.

She then started to show me all of her spider bites. On her chest, face, legs, shoulders, back and arms. I really felt like she was on a mission to see projectile vomit. She had too. She described the nasty feeling of spotting a big roach crawl up her leg and how unclean she felt afterwards. She claimed that all of the marks--including the zit on her face which was not a bite at all, it was a zit--were bites of a brown recluse.

Nope. I called bullshit inside my head. Her logic was that because she saw a brown spider, it must have been a villainous, deviously plotting brown recluse that has been biting her for the past few months. Each night the spider would plan to annoyingly nibble on her skin--which would hospitalize most human beings--and crawled away, planning its eventual return.

"Its so nasty. I have never lived like this before. You should have seen that roach. It was so big. I couldn't even such it up with my vaccum. Its a new brand. It sucks up a lot of dirt. The vacuum chocked on the roach. I had to stop the vacuum and shake the roaches dead body out. It was so gross. Just talking about it make me sick. Anyways, Can you like, call somebody and get them to kill it for me. The spider ran away though. I don't know where it went. But I know its still there. I can feel it. I can't sleep until I know I am safe, ya know? And plus, I have finals in the morning."

I looked at the clock and saw that it was 4:08am. Any DA will tell you that it is hard to get a hold of an RA at 4:00 am--which means, who ever I would call instead was going to be very unhappy. Plus, why was I calling someone to kill a spider at 4 am? Why couldn't she kill the spider? After all, she had just killed a roach. When I asked her if she had a roommate that would kill it, she said "Aw, no. She has finals tomorrow. Plus, why would I wake her up to kill a bug." She failed to see the irony. Why couldn't she feel that.

I went through the motions anyways. I called the RA 4 times and no one answered. I really hate calling anyone that is not the RA because it seems like calling the RD and AC (people higher on the Residential Life and Housing hierarchy) because it seems like I am going further than just one step up the totem pole. Every time I wake up one of those higher ups, they make your reason for calling seem trivial and you ultimately feel bad. This was actually a trivial situation which means the chance of phone call assholery were going to skyrocket.

I called the RD who was actually not that bad. She wasn't happy to be woken up, but she just asked me to call that RA one more time and if I didn't get a hold of them then I should call her back. When I got off the phone again, the strange girl harassed a young man in the lobby explaining the same story, remarkably, almost word for word. The only noticeable change was the uncertainty from before of not knowing whether or not it was a brown recluse or just a brown spider had gone. She was now claiming it was definitely a brown recluse...For sure. She was trying to get this guy to help her kill the spider. After the guy gave me some smug smirks, mocking her paranoia, he finally declined, resulting in me calling the RD again.

Until the RD arrived, the girl talked my ear off more about how the spider may have been laying eggs in her afro--which would explain her itchy feelings. I barfed in my mouth a little and tried to the change the subject...she wasn't having it.

Eventually the RD showed up, tired and unamused. The RD met with the spider obsessed girl who refused to read RD's body language of trying to quickly leave the lobby to go kill the spider. Spider-girl stood stationary until she retold her story and reshowed her weeks old brown recluse bites--that for some reason had not killed her.

No greater joy have I received than the joy of watching the Spider-girl leave with the RD to go kill the spider.

The only thing that sucked was that the RD returned saying they couldn't find spider. Luckily, 5 minutes after the RD left, Spider-girl returned exclaiming that the spider came out right after they left... Then showed me a picture of a crushed spider along with a crushed roach. Thanks, Spider-Jerk. Goodnight.

Arachnid Villainy.

4:09: Just Give Up

Although quietly stated, it echoed throughout the room.

"Seriously, Just quit," she said.

I started opening my mouth to give her my retort but she silenced me before the words could even leave my mouth:

"Don't give me that 'I can achieve all things' speech. I am sick of your comparisons to Michael Jordan. Frank, this is just not for you."

Her words stung me. My fractured pride began to show on my face a bit. Starting with my eye brows shifting up like the magma turned lava, blasting through the top of the volcano. The ash surrounded the room in the form of embarrassment and rage. Before I could even form any retort, any defense I said the first thing everyone says at a loss of words:

"Just shut up," I shouted proudly, stalling until the next sentence would arrive from the heavens, yanking me from the awkward tension in the gym. It never didn't arrive. It might have if she didn't start talking again.

"Frank, look man. I know you love basketball, but its not for you. I am just trying to save your time. You invest entirely too much into something that's not working for you."

I went ahead and used my Michael Jordan retort anyways:

"Michelle! Jordan didn't make his high school basketball team. He practiced nonstop. I bet he heard the same kind of comments. 'Just quit. You suck!' But he persevered. And that is the kind of message Jordan stood for. Working hard and achieving. No matter how grueling the obstacle may be. If the heavens hold you down, you gotta go Atlas on 'em"

She laughed. It was the most painful, piercing laugh. It burned. I really felt what I said and she mocked it. I felt trivial. She realized what she had done to my spirit a few moments later. Perhaps it was the watering of my eyes and the stillness of my body that gave it away. But she realized the pain and tried to make amends.

She got quiet and said, "Frank, I'm really sorry. I know this is important to you. I didn't mean to hurt you."

I tried to respond as if she hurt me but I was too embarrassed to pretend. My emotions could fill the entire empty gym. So I vented:

" Why the hell do you think I can't do this? What makes you think that I can't develop the skill, ever?"

She humbled her self and said, " I don't know. You're right. I have no clue. You could become the next Michael Jordan. But let me ask you something."

She walked a little closer and put her hand on my shoulder and smiled. I wanted to punch her. I really did not feel like being touched. She continued. "When do you think its a good time to give up a dream?"

I wanted to laugh. It was an absurd question. I thought she was really going to ask me something that would really open my eyes or change my way of thinking. I quickly, without a single thought, chuckled and responded.

"Never." I stared smuggly with an impeccable ego, swelling, swelling and swelling some more at the same speed as my ear to ear grin.

"Frank," she said politely and without any condescension, "Jordan knew when to quit."

I was immediately afraid of what she would say next. I knew exactly where she was going with her argument. Before she even began to explain herself, my ego had packed up it's things and returned home in my shrinking head, like a family picknic, spoiled by stormy weather. Oh did it storm.

She reminded me of Jordan's one year baseball career. I didn't even listen to her words because I just knew. The worst part of knowing that you're wrong is when you realize it too quickly and then experience everything you just heard in your head, out loud by a friend. I started listening again after she told me Jordan's stats.

"Frank," she said calmly and sympathetically, trying to protect my ego, which worked, "You can become the next Jordan but how much time do you have? Time is so important, Frank. I am afraid you're wasting it. We're in college now. You didn't even make the team in high school, or you're freshmen and sophomore years here at the university. You're a junior now! Just give up. You are so talented at so many other things. You're a master chef, you write tear jerking poetry, and you are technologically inclined. Yet, you have NBA dreams. There are people in the world that can only play basketball and rely on that to in life. You are really not good at it but have other talents. The last thing you should do is ignore your other talents and waste your time. Its the most important thing you have."

After that day, and a few more days of an awkward air between Michelle and I, things went back to normal. I was too proud to quit immediately so I played it off over time. I didn't bring up tryouts this semester because I didn't go. I had less basketball conversations and made more Computer Science references. No to mention I started having secret meetings with my advisers, who were helping make some last minute career paths changes. Then, eventually basketball had fallen off the face of my world.

My whole life I was told to never give up. But I guess I misinterpreted the meaning.

Giving up goals is a part of life. People change, so do dreams.

But giving up hope, not believing you can achieve anything, is what people should avoid.

You can beat the odds, but you can't beat Time.

5:38 am: "The Letter They Found On Time. However, Too Late."

They found the letter 2 days after they found his body. It stated as follows:

Dear Reader,

It hit me the moment I got married. I realized that one day, the woman I loved the most, the one I chose to invest emotion, experiences and time into will one day leave this earth. I looked around the wedding ceremony seeing kin pouring every ounce of their happiness into the two of us. I remember wanting to be among them, showing my support with smiles, ear-to-ear smiles, rapid clapping and pats on the back. Everyone was living in the moment except me. Some nights, I feared that I would wake up and feel an empty cold pillow to the right of me. Perhaps the months following her funeral or hours after her passing.    Our honeymoon was not the peak of my depression, but it was definitely the close to the climax. The night we made the cliche love all newlyweds do, I cried. I pretended it was because I was so happy, but I was afraid of the next day being further from the day we were born and closer to the day we will pass. When our kids born, I relapsed on the depression that, for a short time, abandoned me. I spent 25 years being a paranoid father: waiting for my children to accidentally choke on a coin and tearing up when they left for their friend's house when the sun was past set. Phone calls in the middle of the night from my children calling from their dorm rooms just to say "I love you" had me certain they were being held hostage by murderous rapists. However, even then was not the peak of my depression. By the time my grandchildren had turned 7, my paranoia had finally subdued. The grandchildren would run around with sharpened pencils and I did not scream. In some cases, I even joined in on the action, giving the game names like "Pencil Wars" or "King Pencil." Actually, my wife had become the paranoid one. Its ironic how much personalities rub off on you after years of being together. Living together. 

The peak of my paranoia was when my beloved wife came home from work one day and asked me where Donna was. Donna was our first Dog we had when our kids turned 13. We surprised them with Donna one evening after they had complained for 7 or more years about not having a dog. Our kids were far to irresponsible enough. Unfortunately, the dog ran into the street about a month later and was run over by our neighbor during the night. It was pretty sad and a little awkward for about a few weeks after that. My wife had developed Alzheimer's. It was the biggest slap in the face by death. I became a very angry man for the following year after our doctors confirmed her conditions. I was mad at the world as well as myself. I had allowed myself to focus obsess over death and I had let my fear dictate and spoil important parts of my moments in my life. I know all the cliches about death being a part of life and counting my blessings. Our family was death-free for so long, I felt like it was Death's way of getting back. People felt the need to remind me to remember all the good times, forgetting that the reason the "good times" were good become of her. I would be remembering these good times alone for the rest of my life. I am expected to watch myself be forgotten. 

As I think back, my most tragic mistake was my lack of appreciation. I spent too much of my life living in fear of death, preparing myself for the worst situations that cannot be prepared for. I hid from situations that make a person, a person. There were just not enough times I lived in the moment with her. She must be the one that feels alone. I made her feel alone. I should have joined her in the moments. But I will join her now...She'll meet me there. Somewhere in our memories.

Live.

The message was found in the bedroom two feet away from his body. Next to the alarm clock.

I wrote this at 4:30. Make it Matter, Please.

He cleared his throat and repeated:
"This is the last stop. I won't say it again!"
Without words, I got out of my seat.
I walked down the aisle at my own pace.
My own pace did not please the bus driver.
It was obvious by the way he sighed and glared
through the rear view mirror. I pretended to fidget
with my MP3 player. There was nothing on it.
I erased the memory before I left.

I stepped off the last step of the bus, which meant way more
to me than it did the driver. For him, it was the farewell of a nuisance.
For me, it was a  July 20th 1969.
I didn't have 500 million viewers. I didn't need them. I didn't want them.
The bus began to drive away and I felt my last chance leaving with it.
I ignored it of course. I didn't even turn around to watch it.
Its a bad omen to turn around. Pillars of salt and whatnot.

The fear and anxiety didn't surprise attack me
until the bus's engine was completely unheard.
I realized the only thing I had was a bag.
It contained deodorant, underwear, toothbrush, Shampoo,
a book, two pairs of jeans, 4 T-shirts and a brush.
I forgot toothpaste.

I began realizing I had less than what I left behind:
Money, a nice home, friends, shelter, a garden,
a dog, a promising future, a few rows of shoes,
a few good books, a bunch of bad books,
lipstick, make-up, contacts, a good husband,
and a letter.

I can't remember what the letter said,
but remember what it meant to me.
It meant that I would be stressed,
worried, reckless, poor, thoughtless,
hungry, pissed and dead.

But I would also be free.
I had everything. I left Everything.
Everything was there
but I was not.

So I am not.

But I am.

And I am happy.

Black Elitism and discouragement: "Man, Ya'll so ignorant"

Education is a  useful tool and a dangerous weapon. An ugly truth, but a truth nonetheless.We have all seen education being used as method of separating, oppressing and attacking those who may not be informed on certain topics as others. In some cases, we have also been those people who have misused something that was passed down to us from someone much wiser than us. Remember when you first learned something interesting from someone interesting and went fleeting somewhere to mercilessly destory  someones ego.  Whether it was what season the Green Ranger arrived or the name of the first Vice President, we have all done it. Sometimes, it is harmless 1upmenship. But then there are those other times when someone with more experience than you comes along and pointlessly reminds you that you are imperfect, which in some cases is needed and well deserved. However in other cases, it is frustrating, embarrassing,  life-changing and discouraging.  What's gross is when individuals hold the education they have acquired over the heads of others who were not as fortunate to gain access to it and are aware of what they are doing. In the the 5 years I have been in college, I have experienced an annoying amount of Black elitism. Not the good kind. The bad kind. The kind that acquires knowledge and refuses to spread it and enrich the black community as well as the world. They would much rather rub and shower themselves in their egoism.

 I remember I was in 11th grade when one of my teacher's friends, a fellow teacher, decided she wanted to condescend to some one of lower experience. She picked me. We were watching some of the destruction  caused by 2005's Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. Somehow it affected gas prices and I did not know because I was not informed on the subject. So, being a student, I asked "how does it affect gas prices?"

and the teacher and one other student mocked me. The teacher started with an eyeroll and then said "...you just don't get it do you..?" She obviously knew I didn't get it, but she wanted to reiterate on the fact that I didn't know something that she knew. The student said "Man, even I know that," singing the pronoun in a way that implied that I should know more than him...whoever he was. Of course I knew they were overacting to something, but I remember not feeling good. I felt dumb and angry. Why should I be mocked for not knowing something like that? I felt like I asked something like "What the fuck is air?" 

What further grinds my gears is when teachers like her want to get on soapboxes and talk about how the black youth cares about nothing but Hip-hop, the internet etc. Of course these kinds of complaints exist in every community and we all roll our eyes at this. But what burns me up is that there are way too much discouragement in black entertainment and in general that makes a sport of point out the black person who doesn't know. Every other black comedian, political commentator and teacher wants to tell you whats wrong with the black generation today and laugh at their problems as if the previous generation was free of similar issues. Why not inform him/her rather than repel and intimidate them from engaging knowledge? 

I'll give you a better example. I was on Twitter the other day and read someone's comments about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I'll paraphrase for you, "I don't know why ya'll love Dr. King so much! He cheated on his wife!!! Ya'll are so ignorant." In all honesty, it's true. Dr. King cheated on his wife. I never liked holding an individual so high that we overlook his/her mistakes, so sure: He cheated. He was probably not that great of a husband. Now let me inform you who may not know what this status does not show is the whole story. J. Edgar Hoover, former president of the US, became the head of the FBI. The FBI believed King to be a Communist so they installed cameras and tape recorders in his room, finding out only two or three things: He was innocent, made JFK jokes and cheated on his wife, Coretta King. Check my bullshit to see if I am lying. Basically, not following Dr. King because he was ostensibly not a good husband is holding him to unfair standard. People make mistakes and discarding their wisdom just cause its hip is hurtful to you. So sure, you can present only one side of a story and school someone on being ignorant for not knowing something you just read on some smug forum and look like the world's biggest dick when someone humbly or arrogantly informs you one the whole story. Just realize that your comment leaves little ripples in the lake and does not disturb any universe whatsover.

So, this Black History month, regardless of what color you are, let's not be pretentious. Instead, lets inform and encourage. It's a celebration.

Villainy. 

As promised: Tim's Biggest Mistakes of 2011

I promised in a Facebook status--the holy Bible--that I would make a blog post containing major mistakes I made in 2011. Originally, I was going to post it the last night of 2011 but I thought that would kinda lame, and, my real excuse, I couldn't think of big mistakes that I made that was important enough to post, or appropriate. Since I have had more time to think about it, I came up with a few decent ones.

1. Picking that Flight.

Ooohhh you know the one. If anyone kept up with my last blog site, they may have heard from this via Facebook or Word-of-Mouth. The infamous, "cheaper" route to Japan. Technically, this mistake happened in 2010, but the effects of the mistake haunted me throughout the year of 2011. I bought a round-trip plane ticket to Japan for when I studied abroad between 2010-2011. It was around 200 dollars cheaper for about--if my math is correct--4000000000000000 dollars worth the stress. My flight was so bad it became an inside joke among friends. People pointed at maps, moving their fingers the "long way" across the globe to demonstrate my flight, ultimately making outlandish designs across African nations, loops throughout the Atlantic to show how out of the way my flight went.  I went from Nashville to DC to Doha, Qatar to Kansai Airport. In the great words of Tupac Shakur: "Damn Timothy, pay attention to flight schedules before you accept them no matter how cheap." He said it. Can you really argue that he didn't?

My defense: It was my first time...

2. Not taking good notes in British Literature II until my grades begin to slip.

That one is pretty straight-forward. For some reason, any time I begin to write notes in class notes in class I become distracted. It happens most commonly when the teacher begins explaining a concept for the class. For example, Existentialism in 18th-century British Literature. The teacher would explain how that form of literature challenged the Catholic church by calling Christianity into question because it emphasized the reliance on one's self, instead of a god. She would continue to explain the pious nature of writers who combat the absurdist/existential literature and then BOOM: my mind focuses on the word "pious." Then I would think of the last time I heard pious. Ah hah! It was Jay-Z and Kanye West's song "No Church in the Wild." Then I would think, "man, I sure am glad I went to that concert! Those dudes killed it! Amazing!....oops" 

Oh..Oh No....YOU AGAIN?!

When I finally realized what had happened, I had missed an entire 10 minutes of class. It takes about the same amount of time to regain the grasp of the topic.

I got an A in that class so whatever.

3.  Having an MP3 player dominated by 3 of my favorite musicians and the rest of it being new bands/emcees I barely like, but try to tolerate just for some fresh air.

For my MP3 player, the shuffle function is like being given three Pokeballs from Professor Oak and all of them being Voltorbs. I can't describe how many times this summer I hit shuffle and the Pillows, Jay-Z, or Red Hot Chili Peppers popped up. Granted, all three of those bands and rappers are pretty damn good. I kind of got sick of hearing them all the time. I tried taking them off my MP3 player and bombarding myself with new music. Doing so introduced me to a lot of cool new bands. It also introduced me to a lot of shittiness. Perhaps I should take more requests from friends. I am gonna try to continuously update my playlists. If its whack after three listens, it gets deleted. I am not gonna have a B.O.B situation again..."Hey, Hey, do you wanna be famous?" oh...I still have frustrated groans.

4. Being reclusive from friends/ extra accessible at work

One mistake I made--one I will damn sure not make again--is being too present in my dorm and not present enough elsewhere. I hate feeling like my number one goal of the day is to return home to my dorm. Not gonna diss the GLC because 99% of the time I love it. Occasionally, I just need a change of scenery. So my plans are to leave the dorm and campus at every opportunity that corresponds best with my schedule.

5. Taking the L

The hardest tast for me to do in the past has been taking the L. If you are not familiar with the phrase, I will save you a trip to Urban Dictionary and tell you that it means accepting defeat, or "taking the loss." I'm sure I'm not alone when I say it is so hard to walk away from a situation that is following you. Last year, I had so many of those situations happen and I refused to walk away from it, which, to most people, is taking the L. For example, when friends are clearly having the better day in a game of wise cracks, there were times when I had no clever responses and simply refused to take the L. We all know what happens when you continue without actually having a comeback:

It has never been that bad, but I want to prevent a scenario similar to this from happening to me on a more serious level. More times than I wished, I tried to fix a conflict that I should have just walked away from. Last year I had a very strong "Man, I gon' fix everything" mentality. Sometimes, it is completely okay to just give up. Somethings are just not worth winning. There are a bunch of conflicts that are winnable, but not worthy. Picking the right battles is something I should practice more.


6. Saying "no" to watching entire series that friends insist on making you watch.

For every fantastic episode of Community, there are like 4 "okay I get it" episodes of Big Bang Theory. There are times I wanted to give series/band/song a chance and a lot of it was just okay.
Okayness is not a bad thing--its okay. But a vast amount of okayness can open your eyes to why a show, movie, or album is merely passing the class of Acceptability with a C-. So if you suggesting something to me, make sure you are not hyping it up. Say, "is this really his thing?" Also, make sure its the appropriate amount of whatever it is. Pick the right episodes/songs, the right order and the right time. I will give a lot of things an honest chance. But by the end of last year, the okay-quality to amazing-quality ratio was far from equal with okay leading the way. And that goes for Anime, Music, Movies, Comedians, Video games and books.

7. Not initiating spontaneous concerts parties instead of getting angry.

I don't like being mad. I like making funny rants, pretending to be mad but I do not actually like being really angry. Their were a few times last semester where I was actually angry. Thus, I have finally come up with a solution to this kind of problem. Whenever someone does something that makes me angry--no not annoyed or frustrated but really angry--I am gonna rap/sing the first song that comes to the top of my head in a silly accent. That means, whenever someone is bringing drama my way.....

IT WAS ALL GOOD JUST A WEEK AGO/
NIGGAZ FELL THEMSELVES/
THEN THAT WATCH THE THRONE DROPPED/
NIGGAZ KILLED THEMSELVES/
WHAT THESE NIGGAS GON DO HOV?/
ITS THAT NEW CRACK/ ON THE NEW STOVE/

OR

TODAY, IS GONNA BE THE DAY THAT WERE GONNA THROW IT BACK TO YOU/
BY NOW, YOU SHOULDA, SOMEHOW, REALIZE WHAT YOU GOTTA DO/
I DON'T BELIEVE THAT ANNNNY BODY, FEELS THAT WAY I DO...ABOUT YOU NOW/

All caps. Max Volume.

I wish I did this last year when it seemed like every month something over-the-top would happen and instead of doing this obnoxious, somewhat funny thing above, I got upset. No more.