My Cells are Stemming

Goodluck Kim, safe journey, I will keep you in my prayers…words stuck in my head like that annoying tune you cant get off your mind. This has been such a big deal for the past six months. There were times I questioned the authenticity of the procedure, there were times I told myself that I was born this way for a reason…a genuine one. I even convinced myself at some point that altering my genetic construction would mean re-writing my entire existence and its core. In July of 2008, I was made an offer that I would only be stupid to refuse…I was offered stem cell transplant on a platter of gold! For free!!!

A procedure that had its pros and cons, but after eight times in a hospital ward, those cons seemed to look less threatening. I just wanted a normal life. One where my friends didn’t have to drive me to the hospital every other month, one where all my assignments didn’t have to be so difficult to complete and my professors didn’t have to roll their eyes at my now seemingly flimsy excuses…. “yes Kim, we know…you were sick again!” Yes! Please!!! Stem my cells!!! Anything to stop this pain and shame…no more sickle cells, no more hospital beds, no more dilaudid (although I must admit, the dilaudid was heavenly, right next to crack!). I just want to be normal. The excitement I felt as I got on that plane to London was indescribable, I couldn’t wait, but I was nervous at the same time.

Three days later, the doctor called me; the procedure would be at his house, in his bedroom (out the gutter now!). As I approached the room, I began to experience a montage of flashbacks of those times that would finally be put behind me, those sleepless and pain filled nights would finally be over. I “received” my healing which came in a syringe that quite frankly could not make a toddler flinch. “Is that it?” I thought to myself! The doctor looked at me and said “congratulations, in three months or so, you will be crises free.” I pulled up my pants and went home…anticipating March!

Three months later, and I had been in the hospital twice already, my excuse? “oh, my cells are still stemming.” Fourth month, fifth month, sixth month and the hospital visits increased. With every hospital visit, it became harder to find blood donors with no antibodies…it became excruciatingly difficult to tolerate the pain and my life saw itself in a whole different light. “walai, ko ni da fun doctor yi”…my aunty said repeatedly, as if he tied me down and forcefully injected me. This was my choice, my decision…I saw an opportunity and I took the chance, but in situations like this, it is always easier to blame someone else for our surprising outcome of events.

I look around and I wonder why this “treatment” worked for the other person, the thought that perhaps this was my “destiny” drove me to that junction, where determination was all I had left; The determination to “fight” for what was left of my infirmity, resulting to “popping” prescription pills as an attempt to numb the pain while I patiently waited for the “stemming” to be completed. The doctor said “three months” and it is November...eleven months later and I choose to remain optimistic, afterall, the worst that could happen would be? Pardon my tone, forgive my syntax or my appearance of being an emotional wreck; indulge my confidence and applaud my honesty. Sickle cell is a disease that affects many “Black” people and everyday, we hope for the cure…one that works, one that eases. Till then, I explore all emotions. They say you experience five basic emotions, I still await the emotion of death…oh, you didn’t know? Death is an emotion. You don’t believe me? Slit your wrist and feel the rush…from my stemming cells.

BITCH

I hope you are not offended by the title of my blog, and if you are, fuck you too. See, I am a 20something year old Nigerian woman who takes pride in conforming to non conformism. Some of you might find my use of the word bitch offensive, and some perverts amongst you just want to masturbate to the sound of it; either way, I hope you all understand that this is not a display of sheer queerness (and I mean it literally).

The drive behind this post has nothing to do with the fact that perhaps I am struggling to shed every atom of cosmic hypocrisy in me, nor does it have anything to do with the fact that as an activist, I feel like women need to embrace the bitch in them. Rather, this blog was driven by a movie trailer I watched. The 2min 44sec movie trailer of “Heart of men” due for release sometime next week captured a montage of lewd scenes filled with sex and murder. I swear at the end of this trailer, I pulled out the biggest masturbatory equipment I had and got to work. I mean it was a well thought out display of yansh, breast and toy guns with banger as bullets…everything you need in Nollywood.

This trailer has spurred a series of backlash especially from Nigerians and Ghanaians in the United States. Fucking hypocrites, why in the world would anyone who is obviously fucking their brains out complain about a bunch of exposed ass cracks on the big screen? Utter hypocrisy at its flyest is what I call it. On the most part, the fictional nature of movies serve as a similar or over exaggerated account and reenactment of real life events, so wetin be una problem? I commend the actresses who let their guards down despite the knowledge of possible outlandish actions of their fans.

These women owned the BITCH in them, call it what you will, but whether you are offended by the pictorial depiction of African women in that movie or not, we all do these things. We all fuck and we all enjoy the pleasure of orgasms, but that is another post for another day. For now, enjoy the movie trailer below and yeah, have a nice day. :)

My name is Afrikim and I am a Bitch!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwNhDLelwKk

Prodigal Self

Now I feel like I have to go that extra mile in order to validate myself. Earth to Afrikim! Where the fuck have you been? My recent discovery that I had been conveniently “kicked off” a blog I was “begged” to contribute to, shook every insignificant cell in my marrow. Sad thing is that it took me less than a minute to realize that I had been engrossed in some sort of imaginary world. A fucking world that I consciously did everything to prevent getting sucked into. I was that bitch who made fun of “those” people, and now I get high off the 100 new friends requests a day. Shit I never wanted to be a part of; things I openly expressed resentment towards, and a lifestyle I sneered at. I have never felt so insignificant and purposeless my entire life.

I look back and for the past few months, I yearned so much for the “life” experience that I forgot to LIVE it! What got into me? I am Afrikim and my ultimate identifier was the uniqueness in my life and everything associated with it. Now I have become “one of them.” I’m not undermining their potentials nor am I judging the lifestyle they live, but truth be told, they do what they do best, what I can never do with three wishes and a million years to spare. This is what I do best! I live my life, I challenge myself from the other side of the road, but how the fuck did I end up in a line that wrapped around the block? What trance led me here? A tailless and endless route! Why the hell did I get so consumed in the chaos of this fucking lifestyle?! I don’t want to be the next Miss X, nor do I have any interest in being the next “most talked about newbie on the block”…but I guess my quest for a different type of thrill has landed me exactly where I dread…now I am just a regular ass bitch!

No one approaches me with the pre-existing knowledge of my enigmatic nature. Nothing intriguing has come out of this for me and quite frankly, I fear re-reading this fucking piece as I am quite sure that this is by far the most juvenile of them all. I lost my essence! I lost my umph and I fucking lost myself! Now, in all fairness, I did enjoy the parties, the packaged identity accompanied by the highly premeditated swag…It was fun! No lie! The façade of being associated with “who is who”…however, that life is not for me.

I only want to be Afrikim. I only want to write. I only want to be able to drown my sorrows in a 40ounce bottle of Old English malt liquor and enjoy the whiff of my blunt wrapped home grown chronic weed in peace! I only want to be the cutter that I have always been and anticipate my next sickle cell episode while I continue to work on my “master plan.” How could I lose myself in the middle of this chaos?

I have always been my own hero, I have always been my own mentor and unfortunately, it took my teenage friend deleting me off his blog to realize this. He tried to reach out to me, typing empty dots on my screen, but I was too busy “playing” with my newly found “experiments.” The bright side of my little situation has got to be the simple fact that sometimes in life, distractions are effective tools in reverberating focus…that is my quote and that is probably the most intelligent thing I have said in the past few months, so bear with my prodigal ways and embrace my shameful return…

Dear Mr Rosenberg

*THIS WAS SOMEWHAT OF AN EPIPHANIC CONVERSATION I HAD WITH A FRIEND, SOMEONE I FIND REFUGE IN THE ACT OF RUBBING MINDS...IGNORE THE MISUSE OF IDENTIFIERS. I BELIEVE THAT WHEN TWO MINDS INTERTWINE AT THIS LEVEL, IT ALMOST ISNT NECESSARY TO SEPARATE THE TWO. PARDON MY RANDOMNESS...ENJOY*

A friend of mine asked what made me happy and my response was something along the lines of, 'moments of clarity, when the pieces fall into place and everything seems alright.' or some such nonsense and I don't think that anymore… I think happiness is a drug. Now what do I think? Everything we are sold, every little bit of capitalist society, sells us happiness… it is the ultimate product and function which with every purchase and modern action we strain to achieve. We are told it is the result of a perceived and highly subjective "success". I believe happiness, despite what we are told, is not the answer…it is not something you can have everyday, or every moment of life. At least, not in the way we have been taught to conceive of it. To proceed in such a manner is self indulgent and grossly destructive. instant gratification, if anything, will be our downfall, if it has not already become such by way of the recent recession happiness and success, if they are to be believed in at all, are the result of a life well lived with moderation, balance, and a great deal of honor and integrity…they are the product of positive and benevolent action, and of work well done. After years of drug use and partying, I feel pretty comfortable saying that happiness doesn't come in a pill or a person. You educate and inform yourself as well as you can, uplift and enlighten your self and the existential status of as many of your fellows as you can, and when you have truly crafted a job well done, THEN look back and be proud. If you must find happiness in your daily life, find it in knowing that what you do is of merit and what truth you have found…this is not to say that we must follow some Judeo-Christian notion of morality in order to be one…but I believe that the notions of success and happiness in the modern world have become much maligned and we desperately need to reassess our priorities and the stratification of our goals in life. It’s my personal belief that greatness or excellence in one's endeavors is often a distancing factor from those who did not, could not, or would not achieve such things. In the manifestation of these actions, such choices have been attributed to ambition, passion, drive, motivation, power, madness, obsession, etc. my struggle at this point is to find a manner in which i may still pursue that which inspires and informs my existence, while not impeding others' pursuits in the process. What makes you happy? Pussy…ha-ha… not a bad answer in truth, pussy is a powerful and beautiful thing…I asked you that question because I don’t know what makes me happy? See, that's my point. That question is one we've been indoctrinated to ask ourselves I am constantly searching for that next best thing to grasp my attention and spark my intellect. But is that what equals happiness to you? I just said it… something that grabs your attention and sparks your intellect. That’s what makes you happy… I’m afraid that all I will end up with at the end of my quest will be a handful of trifles and insignificant pieces of information. So maybe the answer to personal happiness is not a singular object but an intellectual and emotional state that's all any of us ends up with… I doubt my clothes will ever unravel the fabric of the universe… this is what I’m saying: maybe "what makes you happy" is not the question… and maybe happiness is not the answer the pettiness of it is all over what you just said if you're worried that your efforts at happiness won't mean anything, perhaps it's time to find something that does mean something to you a lot of my unhappiness stems from a fear of inconsequentiality and the fact that what I’m doing ultimately doesn't matter…the thought of me dying without possibly feeling that sense of true happiness no matter how short lived it is...kills me.

Party Bus

A friend of mine recently celebrated her birthday and in typical DDK fashion, she rents a "party bus" till 3a.m so we could all bask ourselves in alcohol and "enjoy" the night. Although this day was meant to be "all about her," I saw it as a metaphor for my life. Throughout the day, she ran errands and hyped the fast approaching night, she was filled with energy and as enthusiastic as a bridezilla who awaits the breaking point...it was "HER" birthday, "HER" bus, "HER" rules and she could do anything she wanted. As it neared 10 o'clock, she increased the volume and the yells became louder "is everyone ready?!" "The bus is here, get your asses out!!" "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"...and the louder she got, the less attractive the concept of "free alcohol" became...I thought to myself "someone shut this bitch up"...but she was right! It was her birthday and she could shove a 20inch pole down her throat if she wanted to.

I know I got a little carried away with the roommate bashing, but my point here was to make comparison between this party bus and my rather interesting life. In my early teenage years, this was my approach to life...it was MY party, MY rules and if you didn’t like it, I got more outrageous and rebellious just "cos"! It was all about me and if you didn’t approve, you could have a glass of cyanide on my account. Later that night, I approached the alcohol bar at the back of the bus and put my bartending skills to work....MISSION: increase the blood alcohol level of everyone! The correlation between alcohol intake and energy in that bus was a ridiculously positive one! Everyone got louder and louder as the music drowned in their voices...the tower of Babylon couldn’t have made it past the foundation if these fuckers were present. "D...D...K!!" Mo screamed...and everyone co-signed the chant! Yes! We are "fun" people.

As I looked around, I noticed that clothing items on these women were gradually and significantly reducing...even I bust out the splits...twat hitting the ground like ouch! Back to my oh so interesting life...at some point, I wanted to do everything...multitask and take the world down one shot a time! I "bust into the splits" and took risks that were unexplainable, I did things because I realized that people were watching and it mattered to me whether or not they felt I was better than the next person...my drive was not within, but merely fueled by those insignificants who might or might not have noticed the impeccable skills I displayed when I did the splits...once again, please do not take any of this literally.

Occasionally, I would get a little tired and sit for a while...wiping the sweat off my face and my ass hits the seats on this bus, Mo would yank me and "make" me dance to this song because she needed a "partner"..."oh! Let’s do the stroll" she would say and I would watch my reluctance turn to excitement...my life? YES! those times when it was only right to "stop," that one person came along and knocked me out of my pessimism...told me I could do it...gave me just enough energy to get me up and left me with no PUSH...nothing to keep me going, so I end up standing there with sore calves, then I turn around and realize some bitch took my seat! aarrgghh!!!

Occasionally, we made the bus driver pull over as we needed smoke breaks...at some point, the driver decided to park in a gas station...now I definitely know that this is a metaphor for not only my life, but many of you!...sometimes we pull our buses over in a gas station, knowing damn fucking well that it is filled with a bunch of drunken 20-somethings who make it a point to remind you that they "don’t give a fuck" ...sure! They have lighters and cigarettes...and sure, there is petrol and diesel all over the place...but oh well, hop out and put your lighters up wont cha! This reminds me of those stupid decisions I made in the past...those decisions I knew were clearly outrageous, but I went ahead anyway...like a stupid woman who has unprotected sex and crosses her fingers in hope for her period a few weeks later.

After a few more smoke breaks, being refused entrance into the club because we "were too drunk to party with the rest of the normal world," a long unnecessary walk on the beach as a last resort to forcing the "fun," and an argument with someone I was extremely vexed by for "slapping me on the ass"...well, shit, I asked for it, next time I would limit my display of flexibility to my bedroom! Finally a long ride towards "home," was in progress. I found myself on a bus with entirely different people from those I got in it with. We were drained; we could no longer keep up with the lyrics and had no energy to sing along. We constantly looked outside and turned into 5 and 6 year olds yelling "are we there yet?" every ten minutes. We just wanted to go home! We had enough of seeing bare ass and lesbians in action. We were tired of exchanging bodily fluids via whatever form of contact and after five hours, smelling the next person's sweat made you want to vomit. WE HAD ENOUGH!

Well...my metaphor! My life! gosh I think I can really say "I’ve been there, done that"...of course the height of someone else’s' rebellion marks the bottom line of innocence another person claims...We got home and everyone hopped out this party bus not looking back. At the end of the day, we went on a journey, some highly unnecessary and some well needed. As for me, I wouldn’t have traded my night on the party bus for anything; however, it always felt good lying on my bed and going to sleep...my life? the party bus...intoxicating yet very interesting; exhausting yet educating; demanding yet exciting...I wonder what the bus driver thought of me when I made my exit to lay in my bed...I wonder what you will say about me when I leave you...well, all I can say is life has been and continues to be filled with experiences and encounters...and I encourage you to embrace and acknowledge the details of your own party buses! Goodluck!

My Friend

My friend…lend me your ears, listen to me. Lend me your heart, feel me for just a minute. Lend me your eyes and look around you. Sign into facebook, myspace and twitter…let the world stand still and lend me your being. Have you taken time to look around you today? Have you seen the kids in the ghetto? Have you seen the struggle in the rural? Have you felt the pain of the little child? Hungry with no food?The teenage women with AIDS and the able bodied man with no hope? Lend me your ears…listen to my voice…strong and solid as it is at this moment, representing those who have no chance to vocalize their distress.

Have you seen the youth with sickle cell anemia?? Can you imagine the rush of dilaudid and Benadryl? Do you even have the slightest idea what it means? Feel the pain in my legs, my joints, my head and my back. Don’t hate them, forgive us for we might be reaping the fruit of someone else’s’ wickedness. My friend, open your eyes and lend me your sight, so we both can see the suffering of the less fortunate. The woman who is forced to raise children she did not solely bring into this world.The girl who was raped by her cousin who lived under the same roof for seven consecutive years. No one believes her, they blamed her for her own mishap.

Lend me your hands for a minute, give that secretly suicidal teenager a warming embrace…my friend, lend me your time, let every mission wait, let every errand run itself, just for now, let the world stand still. My friend, do you feel what I feel? The pain, the agony and the distress…I remain taciturn, not because I am speechless, but who would understand? If only you could see through these deteriorating eyes…see through my soul and feel the beat of my heart…offbeat anad without rhythm, lend me your pocket. Give that homeless man a dime and acknowledge the sign that says “will work for food.” The woman with the infant on her back, running down the highway in an attempt to sell you something…buy her triffle and save that child’s life.lend me your vision and describe the beauty of this world to the blind man who does not know yellow, blue or black.

Lend me a few items from your closet and put clothes on those backs…my friend, pardon my naivety and lend me your understanding. The world does not revolve around you, neither does it revolve around me. Lend me little drops off your faucet and create an ocean for the thirsty. My friend, my good friend, lend me a few minutes off your life and help a stranger today...My name is Afrikim, and you are my friend…

Antibodies

For months now, I had been screaming for a way out of this writer’s block I’m having. Unfortunately, it took a deep cut on the index finger of my right hand to counter my block. Although it was an accident, certain events led to this cut…as I felt a quick but sharp friction against my finger, I knew the cut would be an experience. As I watched the blood drip from my finger, all I could see was an image of me hooked to the i.v, and the four pints of blood that commenced. The tears rolled down my eyes, not because I was in pain, but because it made me feel ungrateful. I was watching Jane Doe’s blood waste down the drain of my faucet. I imagined the trouble the doctors went through in order to find the least blood with transfusion mismatch for me. Days of constant and intensified monitoring, to make sure that I was still present, countless amount of pain shots that knock me out of my consciousness, making everything a blur. I thought about what good this blood could do to that victim with the gun shot wound, that motorcyclist with head trauma, that poor old lady assaulted and robbed by gang members…most especially, I thought about what good this blood could do to the next sickle cell patient that would lie in this same bed, re-enacting my predicament. My heart sank and so did ounces of blood gushing down my palm. Although not enough to cause nausea, I felt light headed and dizzy, reciting apologies to those donors and receivers, the imagery of my eccentric red blood cells escaping my embodiment weakened me…I was better off drinking a glass of cyanide. Like a traitor, I was ashamed to report my accident to anyone, like my life depended on air, I felt like I had just deprived them.Then, I thought about those other set of people who ran around all day and work their bodies’ 20more times than the average Joe...those people who ranged from road side constructors, to miners and the likes of those Real World vs. Road Rules hot buds. I think about those people who have the energy to last for almost a century without having a splinter their entire lives. Having heard of multiple cases of lost lives due to the absence of blood or shortage of donors, my heart skipped beats as I watched my blood sink and sink... I saw my blood lose its deep red richness and become barely pink. My tears rolled uncontrollably as my friends lost the drive to console me. I then thought of someone who would understand my sentiments, but bothering her would only worsen matters as she told me a few days earlier that my need for blood scared her. All I could do was watch the blood flow. As I shut the tap and wrapped a thick quadruple –folded napkin around my index, I crossed my middle over it in hope that the bleeding would seize. Although I don’t bleed anymore, I just want to thank Jane and John Doe for their thoughtfulness. For their unconditional and selfless act…for tolerating the needles and drinking the milk to replenish their donation…I want to thank every blood donor out there for taking others into consideration and most especially, for saving my life…THANK YOU.

Death

A cousin of mine said “when I die, I want you to donate my organs to those who need it, scatter the ashes of my brain on the soil so that knowledge can be given to earth”…I had an outer body experience recently. It was a conversation with my mother, she looked beautiful and had aged gracefully, her hair was well maintained and even in death, the diva still had an excellent fashion sense. Many of you might not know this, but after my mother died in that plane crash, her body was never recovered… (at least so we were told).
This and my cousin’s statement made me wonder….whatever happens to us when we die? I have seen some fucked up deaths and trust me, at the end of the day, it really doesn’t matter whether you die in your sleep, saying fuck the world, through brutal murder, suicide, drug overdose, slipped and fell, heart attack, asthma attack, anemia, motorcycle related injury, while snorting six pills of vicodin, riding your bicycle and minding your business, on Ibadan express way, armed robbers, hired killers, AIDS, Gonorrhea, Syphilis, were break dancing and broke your neck or maybe it was just your time to peace out…the truth is that we all die. So, where do we go when we die?
Yeah Yeah…all the religulous people will say things like “we go to the bossom of the Lord”..bla fuckin bla!!! I cannot argue where we go, because it baffles me how we know that after death, there is a “place” we go, a place assigned to us by the “decision maker” based on our actions while we were here…however, it would have been a lot easier and more convincing if we actually had references…u know, people who have been there, and their “Testimonies”…it would have been nice for example, to hear Fela say “hell na fire…ayakata”…because he has been there; or to hear 2pac’s account of the “ghetto in heaven.”
Sad that as a people, we create this illusion of someone being in a “better place” because it affords us the convenience to think of our loved ones being comfortable after they say goodbye. When we die, are our souls recycled into this new being in a new region with new experiences? Do we get re-born and live an unfamiliar life all over? Are we sentenced into this unending moment of silence and darkness? Do we just hover around our familiar and favorite sites and play pranks on the idiots that still struggle on earth or do we just seize to exist? I for one, have not had a lot of experiences (dreams, illusions, reality, film trick or hallucination) with the dead. My mother has not “appeared” to me and frightened me in my sleep nor has she “killed” those who want to harm me. However, the very few encounters that I did have with her were as close to reality as possible and I couldn’t imagine someone of so much soul and passion doing anything else with her after life.
On occasions, people have told me stories of their encounters with someone they swore was Teejay, however, the logical and realistic side of me refuses to believe it until I experience it with my own two eyes…yet they say, we were all created in twos. When I say death is an emotion, I mean it. No emotion is permanent…we are either happy, sad, angry, shocked etc. No one has experienced one single emotion for a long period of time…except death. Even if we are “recycled” and our souls are pumped into this new being ready for new experiences and seeming occasions of dejavus, we never return in our original form, hence those people who we left behind, still mourn us..NOW, if only there was a list of recycled souls so that our loved ones would hunt us down and reacquaint themselves with the new us…wouldn’t that be weird?! So where do you think we go? What do u think happens to us after death or rather…after life? Do we roam the gray area? Does the nature of our death affect our souls and their ability to proceed? Or is there this field dumpster where our curious, wondering and innovative beings are allowed to rut? Trust me, if I knew the answer, I wouldn’t ask you.

lucid dreaming

Lucid Dreaming(the mind of a disturbed teenager)Three Doors Down said…”roaming through this darkness, I’m alive but I’m alone”My lucid dream began at 15 after I saw the paternal members of my family shed crocodile tears as they told me that the plane crashed. Instantly, I slipped into this world where everyone put on masks…in my lucid dream, they were “lions, tigers, bears oh my…” lol. No it’s not funny but I saw through those masks…the more I masked them, the more transparent they were. They made comments and references, gestures and sneers. Damn! I fucked up! She asked me whether or not she should stay, and I said “go”…yes I did…”go, this last time” I said. I made her go and those words repeatedly played in my head as I shut my eyes wide open to dream. Even if I could give up everything, she wouldn’t return…Teejay wouldn’t come back to me. So I commenced my lucid dream. In this world that most don’t see because of the depth of their imagination- the lack of experience that leaves you no option to choose between two worlds denies you the privilege of lucid dreaming. I slipped and slipped and like Eminem in “the way I am”. I fell and fell…Now, somewhere inbetween 2000 and 2000LD, I got stuck in the gray area. I lost control of the lucidity of my dream. Masks became a typical representation of the human face. I crossed the waking state with no lapse in consciousness…”roaming through this darkness” I was alive but alone. The imagery of life in it’s true form became painfully vivid. Yes I did have days when reality seemed attainable, days when I could literally taste the rain and feel the pain. In my lucid dream, horrific instances became a norm. what have I done? I screamed but no one heard. They didn’t hear me because a part of my subconscious wanted silence…I numbed my heart and froze it. Remember the dog from “vanilla sky?”…yes, like Annie the Dog, I froze my heart. Far away from hurt. This plane did crash…soldiers did die in Iraq and Bush did capture Saddam.In my lucid dream, I chose to be blind to true love, I chose to be deaf to the originality of melody…and everyone became a fool. What are you dancing to? Why rejoice? Why cry or celebrate? They say you experience five basic emotions, I created a sixth one in my lucid dream…I felt the emotion of death…oh, you didn’t know? Death is an emotion. You don’t believe me? Slit your wrist and feel the rush. Three Doors Down…this world inside of me. You WILL never see it. Why? Cos it’s shit only Steven King and his science fiction pals can make you envision in your wildest imagination…”feed the idiot box”…media! Ha! Every year in my lucid dream, sympathizers will offer condolences and I will laugh at them…because I see their masks...yeah right! Pray! To who? God? Well, I KNOW GOD! She is beautiful. More importantly, I see her face…(NO, im not high on DMT…). In my lucid dream, you are a dumbass. They call it hip hop and you “hop.” They call it the supreme scream and you throw your hands up and go aaarrrggghhh. You fucking idiots…the media has been hegemonized, yet you fail to see that they are feeding you “bogus” crap and like the dumb consumers that I painted you out to be in my lucid dream, you gobble gobble! Teejay is dead, yet you all walk around as if life is dandy. I left my guns out of my lucid dream because if I didn’t, you will all be dead. Call it whatever, but there are a lot of them that should have sacrificed their lives so she could live…teejay deserved it more than any of you idiots. I have been looking for the door..for years, I sought the door…the exit to this fucking dream! Fuck a lucid dream, I choose real life so these bastards can hear me and learn something. I kicked three doors down, but they all led to more entrances…someone in one of the rooms said to me “wake the fuck up bitch, you’re lucid dreaming”…another asked me to settle down and embrace this state because it was “going no where”…now, will you reach out to me? I cry out! All you idiots with no sense of self fulfillment, I put myself out there…make yourselves useful and get me out of this lucid dream because “a part of me is holding on, but part of me is gone.”

Dear Mr. Facebook

Faceless Facebook!!!

Welcome to face fucking book…now it feels just like you walk into your bedroom to find out that some asshole has re-arranged everything…your bed, your TV, your clothes, your shoes…EVERYTHING!!! Now I logged onto facebook and quickly logged out thinking I was on the wrong site! I closed my eyes and counted to ten, then I “re-opened my bedroom door” hoping to find everything like I left it…messy and disgusting (just my taste) but ALAS! (lmao,,,I said alas!!!) It was a nightmare.

So why the hell has Facebook decided to change the “look” and “feel” of our home? Is it because “Facebook” thinks we will appreciate it? Throwing us off balance as if we have NO say in choosing what side of the bed we want to lay on? What if “MySpace” tried that shit with us?…can you imagine the countless amount of death threats Almighty “Tom” would receive in his inbox? So, this brings me to the question of the day…DOES FACEBOOK ACTUALLY HAVE A FACE?

Just like the convenience that vibrators and tampons offer me, so does facebook. I am able to “network” with those x-chrislanders and QCOG’s without leaving my bed. I am able to go through those photos and make my own little side comments without getting punched dead right in my face, and I am able to go in my bathroom, take a picture and with the divine help of Photoshop, create an image that drops your jaws once it is posted….yes, I am able to “build my own face.”

I am no exact fan of the internet, however, being the control freak that I am, I feel like I should be able to “regulate” my own online activities to an extent. This new “look” of facebook just sucks!! Has the CIA taken over? Asking me “what’s on your mind?” Like WTF? Why are you asking? Why do you want to know? Who sent you? If I tell you what’s on my mind, I’ll have the SWAT at my door in no time! So Mr Facebook, let me ask you this…What is on YOUR mind? Huh? Why the hell have you decided to mind fuck me? Making me feel like that stupid frat boy who passed out on the couch with his shoes on and woke up looking like a clown and wearing heels!

I really don’t like the fact that you have decided to take out the “boldness” of my “status update” font. I hate the fact that I cant even tell the difference between my news feed and wall posts! Why are you doing this to me Mr. Facebook? I divorced Myspace for this shit? Just like a man on steroids who has big arms and a small dick, you have tricked me out of a marriage with Tom, just for you to “gain weight and grow out of shape” in this union! Mr. Facebook, I did NOT ask you for a change, I voted for Obama for a reason! Mt Facebook…I know we did not sign a prenup, but that gives you no right to dye your hair blonde and wear contact lenses that don’t match your skin! Mr Facebook…give me back MY FACE!!!