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.