THE AFRICAN REPUBLIC OF NIGERIA

I’ve always loved politics. I’ve always loved the way that politicians lie to us and play with our heads. I’ve always loved the power that comes with public office. I want to be leader of this shit country. I want the power. I want to be able to change things.

I’ve always loved Africa. We are the cradle of life. Every-fucking-thing in the world came from this shit continent. We understood Physics and Chemistry before the white dude called it Physics and Chemistry. The best mathematical minds can be found in ancient Egypt where they built pyramids with such complex mathematics that the world can still not unravel it. Wouldn’t you be proud of such a heritage?
But it’s just a heritage now; a mere memory.

Let us follow our descent from near-ultimate glory to near-ultimate disgrace. So the old days passed away and we forgot all the shit that we had learnt about the world. I daresay we had already deciphered most of it and shit just got boring; so we pressed the pause button. Or we just forgot. However, we were still the most knowledgeable people in the world. The white dude came to Africa, got bit by the mosquito, died in tons, and called the disease malaria. Does that make him knowledgeable? Nope. After they called it malaria, they still died in droves. Why? Because they built their houses by the water; feeling ingenious and believing they could cheat the temperate climate by doing this. All, not almost all, ALL African dwellings were built far away from the water. Why? Because we knew that was where the mosquitoes did their breeding. We had no cure, knew we had no cure, so we moved away. That’s knowledge; not being able to name shit. By the time the white dumbasses realized this, hundreds of them had died.

So we had the peaceful, knowledgeable and wise life. Simple life. We were cool with ourselves. Then the white guy came and said “Oy! You’re uncivilized” ‘Oy! You’re dirty” “Oy! You call what you’re wearing clothes?” “Oy! Your houses are round. Ours are square!” “Oy! I don’t understand what you’re saying so say it this way!” “Oy! You can’t marry more than one wife!” “Oy! What the fuck is Sango? God is the shizznizz!” And at the end of it all, “Oy! If you don’t do it my way, I’ll fucking blow your brains out with my gun!”

The white man knew that we wouldn’t want to yield to his ways because quite frankly, he wouldn’t want to yield to any other person’s way. So he got his gun. But that was not the sin. The sin was believing that civilizing us was for our own good. I mean if you’ve got a gun pointed at my head, and you force me to speak English, I see nothing wrong with that. I can’t see anything wrong with that. You’ve got a fucking gun pointed at my fucking head. What the fuck do you expect me to say? But no, white guy believed that the gun was a necessary evil. By civilizing us, he made us forget not only who we were, but the enormous banks of knowledge and wisdom that our people had gathered over millennia.
Same thing happened after we got our independence. We imitated the parliamentary government because that’s what the white man did. “Oy! Democracy is the way forward! Everything else is wrong!”

We imitated the parliamentary government because the western world had cracked down every non-democratic form of government that they could. They fucked Hitler up, raped Mussolini, and nearly wiped out the whole of South America. We didn’t want that shit. So we complied. Just look at all the military governments that came after our parliamentary experiment. The western world condemned and condemned and condemned. Western press condemned our leaders, pulling out the humanitarian card, the freedom of speech card, and the death toll card.

You know, what the fuck? Like what the fuck? The death toll card. Really? The amount of people that the west has killed in its egotistic and profiteering wars outnumbers the African death toll by a continent at least. World War I and II. Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The two Gulf wars (geddit?). The whole of fucking South America. The forefathers of you fuckers wearing Fubu and buying ice in ATL. After all this, Tony Blair can seriously sit in his office, think about it for a second, and then open his mouth and criticize Sani Abacha for hanging nine dudes in Ogoniland? Nine dudes? Really? Nine dudes against what, at least a hundred million? And he opened his mouth to say shit? Fuck that.

From Pharaohs to the proper-fucked. Our transition has been a result of poking noses and pointing fingers. Imagine a dude in a cage being screamed at and poked with knives non-stop. Everybody’s going “You’re wrong! You’re wrong! You’re wrong! You’re wrong!” He can’t endure this shit forever. He eventually goes “Yeah, alright, alright, I’m wrong!” This dude’s name is Africa. We have been criticized from the first day that the modern people knew that we existed.

The message, and the remedy is to LEAVE US THE FUCK ALONE.

Goddamit. Leave us the fuck alone.

There is no fucking country in Africa that democracy works. Look at Nigeria. Fifty years this year that we’ve existed and we have made no progress. Everything is still in turmoil. Four fucking republics we have had. Four fucking start-again points. And you ask me why? Why we had to roll up the paper and throw it in the bin four fucking times? Are you asking me? Really?

This shit is not meant for us. We don’t have to be democratic. Look at yourself in the mirror. You’re wearing a fucking three-piece suit. Look at your skin. Is it white? Look outside your window. Is it snowing? Look at your business degree. Does that guy that’s going to give you the contract care? Open your mouth and speak English. Does your mother care?

But you wear a three-piece suit in the heat of Africa. And you get a western business degree to come work in Africa. And you speak English and forget your language. And you support democracy. You do all the white things that white people found for themselves and made to work for them.


All that you want is to criticize
Something for nothing
And all that I want is forgiveness one more time
To be the best in the world [Just Stop by Disturbed].


You are quick to imitate what the white dude says is right. Have you ever paused to think why? Is it because they are wealthy and influential? You want to be like them? If that’s what you thought then you are a fucking shallow bitch. All the riches that the white man has attained in this world was off your fucking back, you bitch. Have you ever been to Malaysia? Beautiful fucking place. Beautiful. They made their money from selling oils to the whole world; the seeds of this oil which they took from the shores of Nigeria. Scratch that, no, you stupid people actually gave them as a gift; in a stupid, sucking-up, elaborate ceremony. You made Malaysia and you are now Malaysia’s bitch. THINK. Don’t imitate, THINK.

Stop listening to criticism. Just fucking stop and THINK for yourself.

And you, white bitch. Stop criticizing. Leave us the fuck alone. Never have you supported a black initiative. You just criticize and criticize, and say that you’re helping.

Western imperialism is a bitch, and you are a bitch if you are under its umbrella.

Africa, you are a bitch. Do you know who’s not a bitch? Venezuela, Cuba, and China. And guess who’s ruling the world? Oh my God, can it be? Yes it is bitch. It’s CHINA. And there’s not a shred of democracy in that populous country.

Do you know the shit that the west has said about China? Human rights, devaluing their currency, oppression, the wickedness of the one-child policy, the Tiananmen square massacre and how it was a massacre (like we didn’t know that already) and so many other stupid things. The Chinese dudes just pretended like they didn’t understand English (they probably didn’t) and they did their shit anyway. But you stupid Africans run around and bow down at everything the white dude says. ‘Yes mister, I’m corrupt” “Yes mister, I’ll marry just one wife.” Yes mister, yes mister. Fucking bitch.

The west found democracy themselves and found that it worked for them. That’s why they prosper. China found that its communist government works for it and that’s why it prospers. We are imitating the west and that’s why we are shit.

We have to dig deep into our history, remember who we were and find ourselves again. We have to find out what works for us and we shall prosper. It is not a coincidence that under Ibrahim Babangida (I will be voting for that dude!) and Sani Abacha, we enjoyed years of economic prosperity. The oil boom period, when we made more money than any other country in the world, was characterized by military rule. It is not a coincidence.

This is what I’d do if I were leader of this shit country. Back to the roots; back to the drawing board. Tell all those western imperialists to shut tha fuck up. Back to black.

Vote Olabode Ogunshina for President of the African Republic of Nigeria, 2035.

Thank you.

GODS OF MOUNT OLYMPUS

We are a different breed.

There are human beings and then there’s us. In a galaxy far, far, away, we would be Jedi. In Sparta, we would be the 300. In Greece, we would be the Zodiac. In Japan, we would be Samurai. In heaven, we would be angels. In hell, we would be demons. Lucifer is our supposed forefather.

Today we are rockstars.

Everywhere in the world, we are the stars in your sky.

We are a different breed. Just like the Jedi have to be isolated and go through years of hard physical and mental training, we have to go through the worst of life. We have to suffer just like the Spartan warriors suffer in the harsh terrains of the mountains. At the end of it all, we come out a disciplined order like the Samurai and have our images portrayed by the stars in the sky like the Zodiac.

We are born to be fucked up; and it is a gift. There is no other way to reach the stars. It doesn’t matter if we were born to Oprah, or born to that skank on the street, we are going to be fucked up. It is our calling, and no matter the riches, we will be fucked up. It is the gift that makes us who we are. It is the gift that distinguishes us from normal people.

They watch us all the time, eager for our downfall and we thank them for it. For fall we will because fall we have to. The only way we can rise is when we fall. No fall, no rise. And believe me, we know how to fall. We do it naturally. Place us in a Catholic School from birth, isolate us from the bad shit of the world, give us etiquette lessons, make us recite the bible, teach us to be kind and soft-spoken, make us good people and we’ll still turn out to be the worst people in the world. Then you ask “where did I go wrong?”

Nah don’t blame yourself. We found ourselves. We went right.

You don’t understand and that’s why you treat us like shit. Like we’re dogshit on the pavement. Ah well, dogshit is the shit. That’s what you don’t understand. Your perfect matchbox, university degree lives are shit. Our dogshit, no university degrees, nomadic, drug-taking, tattooing, drunken lives are the shit. We get to do all those things that you wish you could do. Your stupid responsibilities and morals pull you back. We were born with none of that; that is the gift.

You don’t understand. We’re placed in your lives, in your houses. For about fifteen years, we try to conform. We try to want to be engineers, and bankers, and doctors. Somewhere along the way, music finds us, stops us abruptly like God did Saul on the way to Damascus. From that point on, there’s nothing else.

We know people like you, because for years we have tried to be people like you. Hey banker, I know you didn’t want to be a banker. Hey doctor, I know you didn’t want to be a doctor. But you didn’t have a choice. Your dream was too far away from you so you just had to conform. You had no choice but to lie down and take the whipping from a dude called Social Protocol. Mr. Protocol got you working for him now, and because you made that sacrifice, he’s paying you fifty-thousand dollars a year.

Shit.

We made the sacrifice. There becomes a time when we are called; when we can’t see anything but the crowd. It’s not like we don’t try. We try to want to be lawyers and doctors and responsible people but we can’t. We just can’t. Our bodies are just not wired for that scripted shit. So we make the sacrifice. We push for freedom. We have the courage and the daring that you normal people can’t summon. You should thank us for it but instead you treat us like shit. Hypocrites. You criticize us but where do you criticize us from? From behind your TVs where you’ve been sitting down on your generic sofa watching who? Watching us.

It’s so hard. It’s like a mortal trying to get into Mount Olympus. We are born as normal people; we are born as people like you. We are given the gift of music; our godliness. Then we have to climb Mount Olympus with the gift given to us. We use music as the ropes, the cords, the carabiners and the harness. The music is the food. It gives us nutrients. There are days when we go without eating, we’re hungry, but the music is enough for us. It is our lembas bread.

It is so hard. It’s so far away. There are so many stumbling blocks on this mountain that we have to climb. Do you know how helpless it feels to be chasing a dream that’s so unrealistic? It’s like Aku and Samurai Jack. Jack keeps jumping trying to get the fucking portal but he can’t reach. Just like Jack, there is no other way for us to get back. There’s just no other way. But it’s so fucking hard.

So we sniff coke, and we smoke weed, and we fornicate, and we get tattoos, and we say rude shit, and we swear, and we wear weird clothes, and we do weird things, and we get into fights, and we go to jail, and we drink codeine, and we smoke cigarettes, and we get self-inflicted diseases, and we love it, and you don’t understand why.

It’s the shit that helps us get by. You’re down in the poleis judging us. You tell us that you have hard times too; and you don’t have to go around sniffing coke and smoking weed. You deal with yours in a responsible way. Like real men. Oh but you’re in the poleis and we’re on the mountain. Our hard times can never be like your hard times. We can’t deal with our shit the way you deal with yours; come up on the mountain and see. Bitches.

And it’s not an excuse. That’s what pisses you off the most. That we don’t care enough about what you think to give excuses. We just do our shit, oblivious to your mouthing off and your high moral ground. And we’re stealing your children from you and you hate us for it.

We’re a different breed. We climb the mountain and we see the shit of life along the way. This is what makes us; this is what makes our music what it is. Take all those years of hardship and put it into our music. It’s why our lives have to be shit; so that our music can be the shit.

It’s so hard though. We’re set apart from you people. You laugh at us; laugh at our dream and its part of the humiliation we have to suffer. On the mountain, you guys are looking up from the poleis laughing at us. It’s part of the suffering and we love you for it.

We’re on the way to Olympus; if we don’t get there we will die on the mountain. If we get there, we will give you the rock of your life. Rock or die; that is the sacrifice that we make.

KINGDOM COME

Volume 2 : Up, Up, and Away

Now when the sun come up, I’ll be there to say waddup in the morning [Up, up, and away by Kid Cudi].

The sunrise is a beautiful thing. The weather is just right and the light is just right. It’s more beautiful because of the residual highness from last night. It’s blurry, and everything is misty, and the sun seems to be shimmering, and not so far away from me. It’s beautiful because I’m all alone. Chilling with myself, the sun shimmering above me, my only friend in this perfect weather.

All alone, diary. All alone. I’m listening to Up, Up, and Away by Kid Cudi and I’m smoking God knows how many cancer sticks. The pack finishes this morning. Every time the music stops, I hear myself breathing. I sound like Darth Vader. It’s the only sound I can hear for miles. I’m all alone. It’s the most I’ve come to peace in my life. I can be here forever man. Forever. In the hustle and bustle of the day, I always wish the music wouldn’t stop to skip to another song. In the few seconds between songs I can hear the world and it reminds me that I am in the world. It takes me till the middle of the next song to get lost in the music again. Then the song stops and everything becomes fucked up again.

Me and the sun chilling man. I am in the middle of this desert, sitting under my favorite tree and the sun is shining high up in the sky. Shining only for me. Everybody else is in their rooms and their houses, curtains pulled, sleeping. I’m the only one out here and the sun is shining only for me. From my satellite in space, I can see the rounded earth. There are dots all over the fucking place. Trees, skyscrapers and shit. But all of these things are occupied. People in their houses, birds in their nests and cars in their garages. I’m the only one of the 7 billion people on this earth. The only one watching the sun rise. Just one human dot at this moment. I feel free. When there are people around, I feel claustrophobia; like they’re choking me. I have to share the earth with all of you fuckers. But y’all can’t take the sunrise away from me; it’s just me and the sun and I’m free.

Free and all alone. It looks like that’s the formula.

Sunrise lasts for what, thirty minutes max? Yeah; something around that timeframe. Right now though, I am in that timeframe; in a light, air-filled bubble. I can see the problems and the drama chilling for me right outside my bubble. They’re pacing, waiting, brandishing their weapons and waiting for the sunrise to be over. Then my bubble bursts; they advance in millions, place their cuffs on me, create their own congested bubble and swallow me up till the next sunrise.

Fuck. They get me all the fucking time. I’m serving a life sentence. Geddit? Being alive is a life sentence.

There are three ways to serve this life sentence; each surer than the other. Let’s begin with the surest – music. It’s the middle of the day, and I’m walking because I probably have to do the hard labor that’s part of my sentence, and the music is plugged into my ear. It drowns everyone the fuck out. Dude be saying waddup to me and I can’t fucking hear the dude. I say waddup back and I can’t hear myself even. If the dude says anything other than waddup, I just nod my head and agree with whatever the dude is saying. You could ask me to give my life when the music is plugged in and I’ll just nod man. But the music stops; whether it’s the end of the song or having to talk to these other people I’m serving the life sentence with, the music stops.

Numero deux (Spanish and French people must fucking hate me now). The tree. You know the cool thing about the tree? It pushes all the problems away. Without the tree your head is congested; there are voices in every nuke and cranny of your mind. “Remember to do this!” “Remember to do that!” “Dude there’s no money in your account!” “Dude you’re hungry!” “Dude get your laptop fixed!” “Dude call your parents!” Dude, dude, dude, dude. All these voices all over my fucking mind. The tree rises out of the earth of my mind and smashes all them bitches like the Whomping Willow. Then everything is silent and all you’re thinking about is what you want to think about. Whatever you want to think about. Seriously! Yesterday I was thinking about not thinking! See? Cool thoughts only.

Numero trois! That person. You know diary, I was going to say that girl, but the world is so er advanced these days. That girl might not apply to everyone. So in the spirit of not discriminating, that person (that girl for me though). Yeah, that person. Can’t explain it dude. It’s like a merger. Toss your pride away and melt into a bigger thing. When I’m chilling with that person, it’s just me. But saying it’s just me is just like saying it’s just her. We’re the same person. Everything else is poof. To lay yourself on another is a gift. It is however a rare gift; like the diamond. It’s rare because you’re laying yourself on another. Other people are unreliable and unstable like uranium. Do you know the power you can harness from uranium? Freakish power man. You have to get it to settle down first though. And that’s the problem. Long tin.

All these things come down to drowning everybody else and thus all my problems, out. Being all alone. A combination of the three would be really cool because they all have their limitations. The music stops, the high expires, and that person is a human being. A combination of the three would be like interchanging one for the other. The music stops so you get high. The high expires so you chill with that person. That person leaves so you play music. The best cycle in the world.

Utopian dream.

It’s so hard to find that person; it’s almost always an added bonus. All I got for sure is music and that tree. So I’ll hold on to them like you hold on to the ledge of a window when you’re falling from a skyscraper. Hold that shit tight man.

That tree; the music. The world has fucked up these things for us. Social standards tell us that they are bad for us and shit, and they’ve messed it up for you. I’m sorry for you. You should see your eyes when I tell you about the tree. You’re repulsed. You hate me. You criticize me. You judge me. I’m sorry for you. I’m chilling man. Far away from you and all the problems of the world and you’re looking up at me shaking your head? It’s like you don’t know your place. Thou art beneath me. Can’t you see? Shit. The Church and your mummy and your daddy have fucked up everything for you. You walk on brimstones while I float in the air, feet untouched. And you hate me. Really?

Man I saw a dude yesterday chilling for a bus in this fucked up town. It’s like at least 45 degrees in this fucked up town and the dude is wearing a three-piece suit. He’s sweating profusely, on his own, carrying a fucking heavy bag. I could see it on his face. I could see the sadness he had resigned himself to. His life is fucked up. It is controlled. It is beyond his reach. Yet when he compares himself to me, the tree guy, he’s better than me. That’s why he’s sad; because he thinks he’s better than me. Fuck.

Emancipate yourself from mental slavery [Redemption Song by Bob Marley].

One of my dudes was high one day and he goes “maybe the tree of knowledge of good and evil was weed.” You know, it probably was. That’s all I’m saying.

All alone with myself. All alone with my knowledge. All alone with the sunrise. All alone with the music. All alone with the tree.

It’s the only way I survive.

Away from you people, away from the problems. Up, up, and away.

I’ll be up, up, and away,

Up, up, and away,

Cus they gon judge me anyway,

So whatever [Up, up, and away by Kid Cudi].

Whatever dude. Y’all can say whatever you like. Do whatever you like to me dude. I can’t hear you when my music is plugged in. I can’t see you when I’m high up in the tree. So whatever man. When I come down, all I get is shit from you people. So whatever. I’m up there with myself now. No nothing to bother me.

I wish I could share this sunrise with her. It would be perfect. If it was up to me, I would. But it’s not totally up to me. So a wish it remains.

All alone man. It’s not the coolest thing in the world but it’s the coolest thing in this world.

I’m up, up, and away.

KINGDOM COME

Volume 1

When I come back like Jordan,

Wearing the four-five,

It ain’t to play games with you,

It’s to aim at you, probably maim you,

If I owe you I’ll blow you to smithereens,

Cocksucker, take one for your team,

And I need you to remember one thing,

I came, I saw, I conquered,

Record sales, sold out concerts,

So mo’fucker if you want this encore,

I need you to scream till your lungs get sore.

- Encore by Jay-Z.

Easily my best part of the song. It’s on my very short playlist along with Nothin’ On You by B. O. B ft. Bruno Mars, That Tree by Snoop Dogg and Kid Cudi, and Feeling Sorry by Paramore. These four songs are the four walls of my mind right now and they summarize everything.

Kingdom Come. I’m the Jay-Z of diary blogging. Promised I would never come back after my Black Album, Thoughts From a Blackhole, because of the Geeky Girl triumph; but here I am. The problems have been screaming their lungs sore for this encore; had to drop something. I embrace my “Jay-Zness.” Here is my kingdom. Come.

My mother would be so pissed and disappointed if she knew I smoked cigarettes. After all the shit I’ve seen and all the shit that’s been happening, exposing myself to lung cancer is the most ironic wrong I can commit. My father has lesions on his lungs from where he knows not (for I know that nigga don’t smoke), and here I am creating lesions on my lungs. My mother would be so fucking pissed. I don’t know about my father being pissed. I can’t imagine him being pissed in his fragile state.

The dude actually thanked me for calling him. He thanked me. My father never thanks me for shit; and he never says sorry for shit. He’s a closed book, much like I used to be. He shows no weakness. He is a pillar of strength. But the lesions have brought him to his knees. It’s so fucking pitiful. When I spoke to him today, he sounded like he was on death row for a crime he’d been caught committing. He has resigned himself to death.

He said “Well, I hope they find what’s wrong with me. I’ll be fine (bluff). Just keep praying.” Fuck that. I am super-pissed at God on this here day. I can’t understand why he’d pray to a God that caused this to happen. If God didn’t allow this to happen, then my father wouldn’t have to pray to Him so that He can reverse the shit that He started. Man, I know my father has done some shit in his life, but we’ve all done shit. I know people who have done worse. So I guess the question to God is – what the fuck did my father ever do to you? George Bush has no lesions on his lungs that I know of. Osama doesn’t. Saddam didn’t. Hitler was a fucking healthy horse. So what the fuck is the justification for these lesions? Fuck you God. If you exist. “Just keep praying.” That shit irritates me like a buzzing mosquito.

I feel so bad for my sister and my mother. They are there every day; in the shit. They see him every day in his frail state (he said he lost about 30 Kg and counting). Depression is contagious and I’m sure it’s got them too. I heard it in their voices today. I think a small part of them hates me for being here; hates me for missing all the fun.

I can imagine my sister, an eighteen year old in the prime of her youth, thinking about stuff like going out with her friends. Always thinking up some new and exciting shit to do. Now she can’t think about them without feeling guilt. She can’t enjoy a day at the mall without guilt constantly nagging her. She can’t do it because she is in the shit; while I am not. She has to hate me. If she doesn’t hate me, I will make her hate me, for it is nothing more than I deserve.

And how do I feel about this diary? Let’s just say every time I think about it, I pull out a cigarette. Every time I think about a lesion on my father’s lungs, I pull out a cigarette. This is irony; air-tight irony. Perfect irony. But hey, the cigarettes help bear the weight of the cross made of guilt, regret, worry, pity, anxiety, fear, reminiscence, gloom, and more guilt. I’m carrying this cross through the streets of my life. It’s heavy. I’m having mixed feelings about the crucifixion. It can make everything better but only if my father resurrects; and I can only resurrect if he does.

Everything I’m having, no they ain’t necessity,

But I’m shining, keep on grinding, what you see ain’t all of me,

Though I keep them hoes, don’t love them hoes, the code in which y’all roll,

It’s so simple what I need,

Yo I keep my fam and I can’t forget that tree,

Na na na na na na,

I can’t forget that tree.

- That Tree by Snoop Dogg and Kid Cudi.

Yeah man. All this shit, it don’t matter. Grades, money, girls, cars; all this shit doesn’t matter. All that matters is my fam. You know it’s unconditional love when this kind of shit happens. My father has done a lot of shit to me man. A lot of hurtful shit; you can’t even begin to imagine, diary. But it’s all gone, just like that. Because he’s my fam.

And my niggas are my fam. I know two niggas that have been solid through this. Cool dudes. They’re there in the good and they’re in the bad. I thank them. However, just as they can never totally be there in your good with you, they can’t be totally there in your bad with you. Your good is your good and your bad is your bad. You have to come to terms with them on your own. In the end you’re alone. Everybody has their own shit to deal with. They gat me though, so they’re my fam.

But girls though. Fam? Shit. Girls can betray you so they’re least likely to be your fam. My niggas’ll never betray me. For what? Even if they did, that shit bounces off me man. They can’t hurt me like that. But the girl has the knife that’ll pierce your armor. And the more of a sucker you are if you’re not wearing any armor. I got my special girl but is she my fam? She has to be my nigga (friend) first before we can become fam.

Geeky Girl. The Geeky Girl triumph sent me into retirement. What a pyrrhic triumph it has turned out to become. Man, the shit that has gone down; the shit. But I’m cool with it. I’m fine (not bluffing).

Until today. I saw her with her ex-boyfriend and shit from the archives just began to pop up on my screen. There was a specific warning from a specific dude about this ex-boyfriend of hers. It creates trouble he said; drama. I wouldn’t have been worried because I trust her implicitly. An external warning such as that one would have been deleted to my recycle bin; not a source of worry. It’s now a source of worry only because of Geeky Girl. The dude’s warning is only reactivated because of something she said.

She paints a scenario where I’m walking with a girl in the dead of the night and she’s walking with her friends and they see me and shit. They go “Isn’t that your boyfriend?” and she goes “He’s not my boyfriend.” She wants to be able to say this because she doesn’t want to have to worry about me walking with a chic like a girlfriend would. She wants to be free of this worry and she wants me to be free too. Hence, we have a new arrangement.

Funny thing happened today. I’m walking with my nigga and we see her talking to her ex-boyfriend in the dying night. Ironic isn’t it? According to our new arrangement, I’m supposed to be free of this worry. And I would have been if it wasn’t for specific-dude’s earlier warning. The situation. Ironic isn’t it? OR NOT. Somewhere in my head, I hear a click of understanding. It’s not irony; it’s a message. Faint, but there. I lied to my nigga today saying that I didn’t see the connection. He might not read this, so he might not gloat about the coming apology. I’m sorry dude.

Beautiful girls, all over the world,

I could be chasing, but my time would be wasted,

They’ve got nothin’ on you baby,

Nothin’ on you baby.

They might say hi, and I might say hey,

But you shouldn’t worry about what they say,

Cus they’ve got nothin’ on you baby,

Nothin’ on you baby.

- Nothin' On You by B. O. B ft Bruno Mars.

It is only drama if you let it be drama. Dudes be talking but they got nothing on you Geeky Girl. Nothing. And do you know why? Because I silenced them. I said shush. I’m not worried about what they say cus they’ve got nothing on you. I still trust you implicitly.

Mistake me not. I have something on you and you know it; but it’s nothing because I have silenced it. I have decided to place my trust in your hands; don’t throw it away. They’ve got nothing on you; I’ve got nothing on you. You’re my fam.

Besides, the dude has nothing on me.

Oh and I can’t forget that tree. Weed has been a great help these past weeks. It helps the time go faster in a slow, deliberate, serene way when Geeky Girl is not here, and my head is my own.

Music is the answer my friends. Music is the answer, diary. In the face of impending “orphanage” and Geeky Girl’s ex-boyfriend drama, I still find myself bobbing my head to my short playlist. It is there in my good and in my bad; and totally. It is more than fam; it is me.

Save me from all this shit Geeky Girl. You have the power. Please, please, I’m begging you, don’t fuck with me. I don’t need that shit.

I’m done for now diary, and it’s got me thinking about lesions and Geeky Girl. So pop goes the cigarette.

TWISTED LOGIC (Writing with a fucking pen)

So I haven't actually written shit in a while. I'm always typing and shit is so easy to edit when you're typing. I want to see cancellations, scratches, and lines accross words. It's so fucking exciting.

I always do this thing where I read all the shit that I've written (typed). It's usually when I'm depressed; sometimes when I'm bored. Everytime I read my writing (typing), I swear I can't remember how I wrote those things. How I felt when I wrote them, why I put down certain ideas, why I wrote certain things, and sometimes even, when I wrote them.

I can't feel the moment when I wrote those things. It's like they just dropped from the sky. It's very disconcerting. It's like someone else is writing through me; like the talent is not my own.

If I was typing now, there'd be all those red and green squiggly lines all over my words. They fucking piss me off. I always do the spell check thing after every paragraph; automatically.

So I'm writing now; writing with a fucking pen. I hope when I'm depressed (like five minutes from now) and I read this, I can feel the writing.

I was doing some academic audit thing with a professor. Got an A in writing 101. Got a B in writing 102 because I missed the final exam. Dude didn't know this so he goes "You're not a very good writer, are you?" I swear to fucking God, I could not come up with a retort. No retort in my head even. I doubted myself. I doubted myself because I can't feel my writing anymore. I can't feel the moment. I can't feel shit.

I also do this other thing when I write (type). I check out what I'm writing as I'm writing. Like before I move to the fifth paragraph, I read the first four paragraphs first. It's cool and everything if I glance to remind myself of where I'm going and shit, but I always read the whole fucking thing. I check grammatical errors and try to get rid of squiggly-Bill-Gates lines under my words.

It's like I'm writing for you when I do this. And it's become a habit, an addiction, like my nicotine addiction. The fucking thing is that I didn't even know that this thing I do was a thing. I just did it. At least I know the cigarettes are killing me; and I'm quite cool with that. This thing is killing my writing. I'm doing it because I care what you think. I'm streamlining my shit for you and it's killing my writing. It's why I can't feel anymore.

It's like I'm writing for you. When all this writing shit started, I was writing for me. I have lost the bluntness and authenticity of Nas and subconsciously traded it for the euphemism and flash of Jay-Z. Both Nas and Jay-Z are skilled, but Nas' skill is from the heart and is natural. Jay-Z's skill is pruned and earned and it is useless. It is not meaningful.

So it's a very polite, very nice, no-holds-barred, no-strings-attached, no negative intent, just-for-myself, FUCK YOU to you who is reading this. I hope you understand that I am saying this to you for me. I risk losing your "readership" so that when I read my shit, I can feel good about it. FUCK YOU.

It's what Nas would do.

I hate short one-line paragraphs. They fuck up the symmetry of the whole piece.

You know something? I don't even fucking indent my paragraphs anymore. I think I subconsciously did this to accomodate those fucking one-line paragraphs. I'm a fucking sellout. Just look at the fucking blog. I have to quote myself:

Do you envy me?

You should.

FIREFLY

Like what the fuck is that? Two fucking paragraphs wasted and I didn't even fucking flinch. It's a sad sad world I fucking live in; a sad sad world I write in.

You know, I just realized why I read my shit when I'm depressed. I used to wonder why when I'm depressed, I just point my mouse reflexively to Microsoft Word. It's because I've always done it. I've always done it because it used to make me happy. It used to help lift me out of my depression. Now I just do it because it's habit; and I can't even fucking remember why it's a habit. I have fucking lost myself.

It's very fucking hard not to read the paragraph before this one. It makes my neck cringe; it makes my neck ache. Interesting fact-when I force myself to do something I don't want to do, my neck aches and I have to fucking crack it. I swear to God it's true. I'm walking down the street yeah? I see a chic and I'm tempted to look again. I want to but I shouldn't for whatever reason (I'm walking with my chic, I'll embarass myself, e.t.c). Then I force myself not to look and I have to fucking crack that neck. I always have to.

Do you know how many times I've cracked my neck during the writing of this shit? Count the paragraphs. Don't want to count now. It'll tempt me to read.

It's like everything else in my life. Spiralling out of my fucking control. Can't get a hold on my lungs, my grades, my music and my writing. Can't get a hold on my girl because I'm not supposed to, so that doesn't really count. She's a human being; I shouldn't have a hold on her. However, I keep annoying her with the shit that I say. I've never really cared what people thought about what I said, but I have to this time. And it's killing me. It's like I'm not being myself. Just like the writing thing. Not writing for myself. Let's look at it this way. I want to keep her so it would make sense if I didn't say all those annoying things. I'm still doing what I want by not saying all those things that I want to say because I want to keep her. Twisted logic, but logic nonetheless.

My father in his first and last critique of my writing said I write too-long sentences. I agree. Look how long that last paragraph is; it's fugly. I however can't stop my trains of thought. They are raw, energetic, and beautiful. It would be a damn shame to stop them to please my father; or to please you. FUCK YOU.

All the shit that I've written in the past one to one-and-a-half years give me the same vibe; no vibe. They are the same. Zoom out of the Microsoft Word pages and all of them will look exactly the same. It's probably an image of a pen putting a gun to its head; because its ink is being wasted.

Introspection is a bitch. Everytime I introspect, which is everytime, it always seems like I am further back on my road to redemption. I need time. I need to stop introspecting and actually move.

So if I get my writing in order, I will get everything else in my life in order? Thay all spiral down the same way. My lungs, my music, my grades, my writing and my girl. Somewhere along the way, I lost the reason why I wanted them.

If I get my writing in order, I will get everything else in my life in order. Twisted logic.

P. S : I'm going to type this shit up by the way. And fuck the squiggly lines. I ain't changing shite.