Dear Diary,
My whole life I've been wholesome, Miss Goody-goody, do no wrong blablafreakinbla. I spent the past few years in the metropolis of NYC, feeling like the absolute least fabulous person because, um, hello? I'm not interesting and definitely not bad-ass. See? Who the hell puts a hyphen in badass? Me, that's who. I worked in Harlem, always miserable because everyone there was much harder than me. Even the grandmas. Even the dogs. Even the chorizos being sold. Sooo pathetic. But I studied my surroundings in case the day should come that I could make people believe that I was not to be trifled with. and it's here, baby, it's finally here.
I'm in the middle of nowhere in this tiny town where no one is hard. I haven't seen a booty for miles around. I've got the only one. I've got a lock on the "don't mess with her" market. They're never gonna know that I'm the biggest loser ever to put my name on a gold chain. So now I put a bounce in my step, some attitude in my voice and I'm good to go. I'm not gonna overdo it, though, no worries. I got shit locked down. I'ma do what I do, aight?
Better believe it.
comin straight outta p-mac
representin the 301
listen up, takes notes,
my disciples when i'm done
time to feel my flow
following my game
blow by blow
no instant replay
no slo-mo
just jigga jigga me
and my rhymes
better pick ya poison
better pick ya crime
cuz theres no tomorrow
...
(to order the cd with my smooth navigation
from outta this foreign nation
gimme your cc info
and you
can be amongst the chosen few
who get to call me cee-lo)
Monday, October 23, 2006
Sinner!
Dear Diary,
Today is a dark day in my quest for innocence and purity of heart. In general, I would say I make a conscious (does that make it less worthy?) effort to be a good person. I pay my taxes, hold doors open, assist with strollers on staircases, and give up my seat for old people and/or pregnant women. I should have the ace in the hole when it comes to being good. Maybe I haven't quite reached Mother Teresa status, but I'm doing my part for goodness in humanity. (I must confess that I do enjoy a good shoot-out in a movie, but then I shed the requisite tears for all people killed. I just like the noises and the shattering glass, not the blood, ok? Ask anyone, I am definitely a bleeding heart, if ever there was one.)
So there's the defense of my person. Now here's the crime. (I totally blame this on my iPod, by the way. It seduces me to behaving inappropriately on a regular basis.)
In any case, I was walking down the street, bopping along, stepping to the beat, feeling very alive, energetic, and all things associated with drinking red bull. I have to confess, I was listening to rather embarrassingly crappy music, principally of the pop nature. So anyway, I'm walking along, walking along and then BAM! my groove starts kicking into overdrive because that anthem of youthful sensuality starts pumping in my ear. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I am referring to Ms. Spears's dance classic "I'm a slave 4 U." I was invaded by the spirit of the over-sexed Ms. Britney and moving scandalously along my path. I was having all kinds of naughty thoughts about how much fun this song was and how I'd danced to it in the past and how it could be used in various scenarios, etc etc. Basically, I was laughing inwardly about what the talented singer must have been thinking as she gasped and sighed and breathed heavily into the microphone in the studio. Suddenly, I looked up to realize that I was picturing and imagining all of these things while walking past a cathedral, and that's not good. I'm going to hell in a handbasket. Thanks a lot, pop music marketers, MTV, and all you other seducers. I sang about "bab(ies), wanting to dance up on me" right in front of God's house. Ah, crap.
Then, I cursed vehemently, which did not help the situation.
Musically whorish me.
Today is a dark day in my quest for innocence and purity of heart. In general, I would say I make a conscious (does that make it less worthy?) effort to be a good person. I pay my taxes, hold doors open, assist with strollers on staircases, and give up my seat for old people and/or pregnant women. I should have the ace in the hole when it comes to being good. Maybe I haven't quite reached Mother Teresa status, but I'm doing my part for goodness in humanity. (I must confess that I do enjoy a good shoot-out in a movie, but then I shed the requisite tears for all people killed. I just like the noises and the shattering glass, not the blood, ok? Ask anyone, I am definitely a bleeding heart, if ever there was one.)
So there's the defense of my person. Now here's the crime. (I totally blame this on my iPod, by the way. It seduces me to behaving inappropriately on a regular basis.)
In any case, I was walking down the street, bopping along, stepping to the beat, feeling very alive, energetic, and all things associated with drinking red bull. I have to confess, I was listening to rather embarrassingly crappy music, principally of the pop nature. So anyway, I'm walking along, walking along and then BAM! my groove starts kicking into overdrive because that anthem of youthful sensuality starts pumping in my ear. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I am referring to Ms. Spears's dance classic "I'm a slave 4 U." I was invaded by the spirit of the over-sexed Ms. Britney and moving scandalously along my path. I was having all kinds of naughty thoughts about how much fun this song was and how I'd danced to it in the past and how it could be used in various scenarios, etc etc. Basically, I was laughing inwardly about what the talented singer must have been thinking as she gasped and sighed and breathed heavily into the microphone in the studio. Suddenly, I looked up to realize that I was picturing and imagining all of these things while walking past a cathedral, and that's not good. I'm going to hell in a handbasket. Thanks a lot, pop music marketers, MTV, and all you other seducers. I sang about "bab(ies), wanting to dance up on me" right in front of God's house. Ah, crap.
Then, I cursed vehemently, which did not help the situation.
Musically whorish me.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Humiliated
Dear Diary,
Today began as any other day, but then I guess most days of defeat do. I was walking along, listening to my music, feeling the vibe, feeling fantastic, feeling like one of the girls at the beginning of the Cameron Diaz "girls can be gross too"movie, you know, when she's walking up the hills in San Francisco, shaking her non-existent booty to burn off the burger she ate for lunch cos otherwise it will result in a hideous gaining of weight, except that, OH YEAH!, she doesn't gain weight?
Wait, what was I talking about? Ah, I was doing my best to work it down the pedestrian zone, when I came to a slight incline.
I started walking up the hill when I noticed this woman with a broken leg, sitting in an electric wheelchair, pulling a suitcase behind her. AND SHE WAS BEATING ME UP THE HILL. So I started to pick up the pace because I was not about to let Miss Battery Pack show me up. But it must have been a big battery cos it was taking a lot out of me. But I dug deep, thought back to those inspiring passages in Lance Armstrong's memoirs and stayed focused and pressed on. But the hill wasn't coming to its crest, and she wasn't slowing down. I didn't want everyone to notice that I was racing the injured woman, but, on the other hand, I didn't want to lose the race either. So I practically started running up the hill for no reason, right next to this woman in the wheelchair. Then, these girls were walking next to each other talking, and walking around them would really have cost me some time, so I just pushed right between girl 2 and girl 3, no time for "excuse me"s.
Then, there was this man selling those remote-controlled cars, which he was demonstrating right in my path, so I thought about that movie with the hurdles and did one of those awesome, "my legs are almost in a split" leaps over it. I was almost at the top and could smell the victory (haha electro-girl, how you like me now?), smiling and congratulating myself when a small child ambled into my way. I considered just knocking him over, but my humanity won out, and I ran around him. But the detour had given her the edge back and I was forced to dive for the top of the hill. Diving against gravity onto cobblestones? Not advisable. She won. She won a race she didn't know she was in with a broken leg. And I, for seemingly no reason, had just thrown myself on the ground in the middle of town and was bleeding and scraped up all over my face. Idiot, idiot, idiot,idiot, idiot, idiot,idiot, idiot, idiot...
That's all.
--InsaneCompetitor
Today began as any other day, but then I guess most days of defeat do. I was walking along, listening to my music, feeling the vibe, feeling fantastic, feeling like one of the girls at the beginning of the Cameron Diaz "girls can be gross too"movie, you know, when she's walking up the hills in San Francisco, shaking her non-existent booty to burn off the burger she ate for lunch cos otherwise it will result in a hideous gaining of weight, except that, OH YEAH!, she doesn't gain weight?
Wait, what was I talking about? Ah, I was doing my best to work it down the pedestrian zone, when I came to a slight incline.
I started walking up the hill when I noticed this woman with a broken leg, sitting in an electric wheelchair, pulling a suitcase behind her. AND SHE WAS BEATING ME UP THE HILL. So I started to pick up the pace because I was not about to let Miss Battery Pack show me up. But it must have been a big battery cos it was taking a lot out of me. But I dug deep, thought back to those inspiring passages in Lance Armstrong's memoirs and stayed focused and pressed on. But the hill wasn't coming to its crest, and she wasn't slowing down. I didn't want everyone to notice that I was racing the injured woman, but, on the other hand, I didn't want to lose the race either. So I practically started running up the hill for no reason, right next to this woman in the wheelchair. Then, these girls were walking next to each other talking, and walking around them would really have cost me some time, so I just pushed right between girl 2 and girl 3, no time for "excuse me"s.
Then, there was this man selling those remote-controlled cars, which he was demonstrating right in my path, so I thought about that movie with the hurdles and did one of those awesome, "my legs are almost in a split" leaps over it. I was almost at the top and could smell the victory (haha electro-girl, how you like me now?), smiling and congratulating myself when a small child ambled into my way. I considered just knocking him over, but my humanity won out, and I ran around him. But the detour had given her the edge back and I was forced to dive for the top of the hill. Diving against gravity onto cobblestones? Not advisable. She won. She won a race she didn't know she was in with a broken leg. And I, for seemingly no reason, had just thrown myself on the ground in the middle of town and was bleeding and scraped up all over my face. Idiot, idiot, idiot,idiot, idiot, idiot,idiot, idiot, idiot...
That's all.
--InsaneCompetitor
THE ANSWER TO THE ETERNAL QUESTION
Dear Diary,
I did it. I really did it. When I was in college, I learned about this psychological phenomenon amongst adolescents, namely that they all believe they're destined for greatness and really special in some as yet undiscovered way. BUT I REALLY AM. Why? Allow me to explain:
I have recently moved to a new, strange, beautiful, but utterly disgusting (at least sidewalk-concerned) place. I shouldn't criticize this place though because it has a) a lot in common with every other place and b) led me to finding the purpose of my heretofore ridiculous existence.
While walking down the street, I have become keenly aware of the odd nature of the "litter" to be found. For example, I was shocked by the number of Qtips. There are a LOT. I thought that was weird and unexpected. Then, I saw things like a pad. Not a used one, thankgod, but a sanitary napkin nonetheless.
My confusion regarding the sidewalk decorations caused me to glance down a great deal while strolling about. As a result, I took notice of a sock, covered in leaves. I thought to myself: "Why is there a sock on the sidewalk?" Then I starting thinking about all the strange places other than the sidewalk that I've seen socks: hanging over telephone wires, on highways, at train stations, in lakes and rivers...
Then it occurred to me, my socks ALWAYS disappear from the dryer and so do everyone else's. And we all wonder where they go. OBVIOUSLY they go everywhere. Right in front of our faces, they're just roaming about, not tumbling in the gentle cycle, nono. They're out seeing the world. They don't take their partneralong . They're sick of being one in a pair. Can't be monogamous. But they sure as hell can travel. Selfish socks, man, selfish socks.
yours truly,
geniuswithapurpose
I did it. I really did it. When I was in college, I learned about this psychological phenomenon amongst adolescents, namely that they all believe they're destined for greatness and really special in some as yet undiscovered way. BUT I REALLY AM. Why? Allow me to explain:
I have recently moved to a new, strange, beautiful, but utterly disgusting (at least sidewalk-concerned) place. I shouldn't criticize this place though because it has a) a lot in common with every other place and b) led me to finding the purpose of my heretofore ridiculous existence.
While walking down the street, I have become keenly aware of the odd nature of the "litter" to be found. For example, I was shocked by the number of Qtips. There are a LOT. I thought that was weird and unexpected. Then, I saw things like a pad. Not a used one, thankgod, but a sanitary napkin nonetheless.
My confusion regarding the sidewalk decorations caused me to glance down a great deal while strolling about. As a result, I took notice of a sock, covered in leaves. I thought to myself: "Why is there a sock on the sidewalk?" Then I starting thinking about all the strange places other than the sidewalk that I've seen socks: hanging over telephone wires, on highways, at train stations, in lakes and rivers...
Then it occurred to me, my socks ALWAYS disappear from the dryer and so do everyone else's. And we all wonder where they go. OBVIOUSLY they go everywhere. Right in front of our faces, they're just roaming about, not tumbling in the gentle cycle, nono. They're out seeing the world. They don't take their partneralong . They're sick of being one in a pair. Can't be monogamous. But they sure as hell can travel. Selfish socks, man, selfish socks.
yours truly,
geniuswithapurpose
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