I just had a night of minimal drinking and the maximum amount of run-ins possible.
When I first sat down at this keyboard I had the inclination to write the most venom spitting series of callouts and shout-outs I’ve yet to compose, but then something came over me that thwarted that, decency. So this lost art is really responsible for which that is to follow – in that indecency, deserves no mention or lament and should very rarely be given a second life from the anger or pretension of the author. In fact its my job to kill indecency one would say, with tales that display its faults or show its fatality somehow. The point is its not worth it. You know what time it is, I would have certainly hit this page with a sublime assortment of allusions toward b-list celebs and ladder climbers who’s modus operandi I personally have had issues with, and would have addressed it to those I’m soon to have problems with (you don’t want no problems, problems). What, you ask, is the reason for this sudden change in delivery. Tonight I ran to a Homie that has most consistently been a positive homie to everyone. Yes, everyone you think you know that you think matters, no one has anything bad to say about this homie. I’m always glad to see him, and its seems as though he’s always glad to see me. We always talk about our friends and our futures, and I always find myself explaining in depth my absentia in his life, vowing to close the gap as soon as he spins another set.
Yo it doesn’t matter if you go to art school. It doesn’t matter if your parents live in the UES, the UWS, the LES, or the fucking Hamptons. Or for that matter, Santa Monica, San Diego, San Francisco, or Los Angeles. It doesn’t matter if you spend a lot of money on shitty clothes, or if you don’t spend any money on authentic limited edition streetwear. It doesn’t matter if you like The Black Keys, The Black Lips, The Black Eyed Peas, or BlackStar. Nor does it matter if you’re into Sublime, Fastball, Lit, or Dunkin Sheek. Again the lines between being a pundit, punk, priss, prophet, prodigy, prodigal son, or pirate also need not be drawn nowadays. What I’m getting at is that you barely know what you’re worried about, inclined to think twice about, love, hate, or don’t give a shit about. This really isn’t the time to be up on high horses on barstools in hotels drinking opulently, or down in the dumps on battered love seats you found on the street drinking 40oz proclaiming that you know more about the state of the world than the next suffering human. Because that is just it. We’re all human. Oops. Dosage of Duh pills available at your local Duane Reade now located conveniently in your bathroom.
No one is a super-hero, or a pop-culture phenomenon that at least one person either won’t care about, or forget all about when they’re dead. Thats right, there is a slim chance that nothing at all may care about what we’re doing here. My homie that I ran into is always about the Positivity, and when I see him I realize that sometimes I’m slacking on that tip. Some people have no clue how to be positive, which is sad, but that can’t last forever. Others have a faint idea. Some straight up just don’t know any other way to be. The Homie is such a character and it really is shocking to see in full effect.
Life is too fucking short to care about if your boss that was super cool is still cool with you, or if that cool writer you had a crush on for nine years before meeting them even remembers your name. Or if your ex roommate stole all your clothes and your personality and is doing better with it than you were because their safety net is bigger than yours. Or if that girl with the big eyes that deserves the most beautiful understanding boyfriend in the world, but just gets used wont date you even though you know that you’d be just her type given a weekend. Or if you wanted to write for a magazine and it turned to complete shit; that it still is heralded for it’s “realness”. Or if you had dreads before Lil Wayne. Or if you claim to have started tapering you jeans in 2004 before GoodBye Blue Monday forced you to buy a pair theirs. Or if you’ve been using pomade for years and hate how long the line is a Khiels these days. Or if you’ve never paid for a Blackberry and the month that you do you get robbed for it, twice. Or if you’re Canadian and you’re tired of people thinking your whole country isn’t cool. Or if you write shitty art student graffiti. Or if you play in a band with just a drummer and a guitarist. Or if you do yoga and really are a nymphomaniac and those crusty bitches are ruining your angle. Or if you’re a rich girl that can’t trust anyone. Or if you’re a rich guy who can’t trust anyone. Or if you’re a poor guy who can’t trust anyone. Or if you’re a poor girl who can’t trust anyone. We’re all human.
PS – It does matter if you mall grip or push mongo.
