Lol. Good Times.

"FUCK WHAT YOU MEANT, IT'S WHAT YOU MEAN!"

I haddd to put this on my blog.

Excuse the LANGUAGE...it's a little rough.

But it is THE MOVE!

(shout out to DOND & Juh juh juh Johnny).

MY BIG WHOOPS

These two bottles of smirnoff cost me $1,458.00.

(yes...that is in AMERICAN dollars).

SMH.

Dear children...

DON'T DRINK if your gonna be a dumbass and FUCK UP.

which is kinda inevitable if you drink (or maybe it's just me).

Circular argument? YES.

My point? I made a costly, little mistake & you should NOT do the same.

Be safe churrens.

that is all.

Your cool [to somebody].

Lupe tried it. He did an ok job. It’s my turn to give it a go…

What is “cool?”

[throwing up gang signs when u live in the suburbs? wearing glasses when your ass has 20-20 vision? having over $400 dollars worth of tats on your left arm? smoking a blunt before your SATs?Hmmm...]


To say there is one all-encompassing definition is FALSE. Ignorantly false. “Cool” is an idea...that varies from person to person. It has the same basic requirements across the board, but its contents and true composition are assembled by- you guessed it- the individual [try it out: Google the words “cool people” and take a look-see at the random ass shit you get. Proof that cool is either A. highly variable or B. loosely used. Smh].

The idea is based on nothing more than an iconic figurine- or an amalgamation of them. It’s a product of desires that are too realistic and too tangible to be written off as dreams… as something unattainable. “Cool” is crafted as a goal too subtle to be recognized as one; as a prize to embarrassing to openly desire.

So why is “cool” that kid by the supermarket that doesn’t give a fuck? Who watches as life passes him by without flinching to grab it all back?

The answer is simple. We envy that guy. Not for what his future holds or for the actions (or lack thereof) he completes. But we envy that lack of concern. We envy his absolute complacency with things AS THEY ARE.

We’ve become codependent on stress and pain. We strive for some sort of success (as the world defines it) and find ourselves incapable of rest until it is attained. We watch the supermarket kid walk across his own stage, at his own pace, as we let the puppeteers of fame and financial stability parade us across a wooden plank.

At any moment we can become that guy. And we might try his life out. In testing his waters we address our fears. A fear of the alternative of the strings that currently guide us; a fear the unknown; a fear of absolute and utter failure.

Heavy shit right? lol

So the question you’ve all been wondering…

"What is cool to you, Alexis?"

This guy:

Me & my board GO IN on life.

So today was the coolest day evah.

Why? You ask.

Because I had 100% unplanned fun. And all the Type A’s say "AYYYEEEEE!!!"

It’s kinda sad that loitering the fuck out of an abandoned parking lot is ‘fun’ to me but it was!!

After visiting my alma mater and giving a few inspirational talks to some high-schoolers (lol) I took the Avalon and found me a nice lil' parking lot. I blasted the radio, whipped out the board and skated the FUCKKK outta that place.

I busted my ass all of 2983974382389 times. But NOONE was there to see… so it’s like it never happened. Gotta love solidarity.

So I guess the point of this post is to remind you that... my life is COOLER than your life [or at least it has its days].

:]

[[ima sound like a nerd for this one.. but check out the converse gestalt-type image i got up hurr. is my board white? or black? ayyeee! i see you cog.psych lmao]]

Alternative to tears. Part 2

My health is declining. I’m not yet a doctor but I’d like to say that the decline is unnaturally heightened, abnormally omnipotent; and as always ignored. The saying, “Ignorance is bliss” has never -been more untrue. Ignorance, on the part of both myself and my family, is hell- absolute hell.

Literally all aspects of my “health” are victims of the atrophying ways of my life. My body aches; it moans under the duress of each step I take. My lungs reveal a hidden belligerence and aid in the perpetuation of my current state. I cannot breath. It’s irrational and its crazy, but I can’t. There is air all around me and I am full control of my mouth and nostrils, yet something within me, an uncontrollable presence, leaves me starved for air. I look at myself, my physical being, and I regret, and I lament.

There is no silver lining.

My emotional being is in a similar state. I’ve given up on love; now taught to believe it: nothing more than a half-hearted promise made between businessmen. Rooted in a selfish desire to avoid ‘loneliness’ and share the numerous tasks of life that adorn our futures. Even hate, my usual scapegoat, has become nothing: Yet another feeling that mandates care and a conscious cultivation on our parts. If love is nothing more than a mutual agreement, why is it so prized? And considered such a blessing? Is not the one that can complete life and all its tasks without the help of another a greater being? A stronger soul? If one can train himself to love- to forego lust and remain committed, to give continuously with the needs of others in mind- can I not train myself to accomplish more? To surpass the hackneyed requirements of the lover and do more? Give more? Get more? Is independence unable to coexist with selflessness, charity and achievement? Or are those the very factors that create it, and give it strength?

For too long has the fairy tale of my latter years acted as the blueprint to my life. For too long have I bought into the standards and ethos my society has set forth- without question and without appeal. What leaves me broken is not my current refutation of such beliefs. I stand firm in my rejection of such tales and will remain unmoved by any appeals to return to ‘what was.’ My emotional state is due to the absence of a successor; no heir to my former beliefs. Instead there is a yearning for some truth and an insatiable hunger for answers and explanations.
Fuck. I just realized I have yet to curse. And so the latter sentence was my simple remedy.

I mean what is catharsis without inappropriateness- so says society. Yet, isn’t expectation of an action merely a sign of its acceptance and tacit appropriateness? Oh life! Oh cultivated life. How I’ve grown tired of you.

Organic thoughts.

What the fuck am I doing?
That is, where am I going?

Zoning out on my “love.”

Disinterested and shit.
Eyes close.

Mouth opens.
Puddle on my desk where my interest used to be.

Fingers crossed that I make it. Give me four years I’ll fake it.


This perpetual test: of the can and cannot.

Fuck passion.

That proves nothing. Cloak me in white; then I’ll be somebody.

Foregone are the weakness and love and friends. Then- deemed a distraction.
Negligible fraction of what was... is to come.

Young and beautiful.

That she was.
Now dead, commemorated by a statue of gold and status.


I think I hate it.

Absolutely.

Alternative to tears. Part I

I’ve yet to cry wolf. Still, my words hold no significance, no sonance to those that meet them.

I sit in pain, wishing it only existed on a physical level, no this pain, this pain saturates my body and leaves me decrepit.

I sulk in it. Yes, I fuckin embrace it. I love it. Self-mutilating fool I am. A complacent masochist. Call me crazed, or simply, one who accepts his fate without the pseudo-heroic struggle that precedes destiny. Why engage in a final, flagrant attempt to evade the unchangeable. For what? Or for whom?

(Legacies are nothing. Of what purpose do they truly serve?

First Argument: An inspiration.

Recorded and displayed to reveal the possibilities life possesses. Simply meant to encourage the broken-spirited and pubescent souls to exert more in all of their endeavors? To strive harder? Work longer?

Is that truly the plea of a legacy?

[Optimism is tunnel vision intended for the weak- for those incapable of entertaining the truth and facing the evils that encumber our days].

A legacy is nothing more than the selfish and prideful desires of one’s heart enumerated on paper. A media source present only to corroborate the greatness that was, and is believed- at the time of documentation- to never be again.

It boasts of superiority and deems its protagonist a deity- one who is exalted for his deeds and evades death through the eternal life gained through preservation by scripture.

Second Argument: a method of conditioning; of reducing the repetition of negative behaviors and inducing those conceived to be more favorable.

Outlined and explained to admonish mistakes of the past. To cultivate generations upon generations of more heroes and eventually extinguished both the idea and presence of all evil.

Decorated punishments and accolades outlive the truth. Legacies, turned campfire tales and bedtime stories are meant to fool the young; meant to tease their stomachs; manipulate nature, and leave them salivating, raging for a treat that will never come, for a life that can never be matched.

Is there need for a third argument? For a fourth? or a tenth?

The simple-minded regurgitate what the world has bred in their minds. Their answers seem obvious and those who oppose them become “ignorant.” However their words are inspired not through logic, but its greatest opponent: intuition.

Intuition.

Synonymous at times with the factual, yet its roots are set in the world’s soil. A soil that surrounds the seed and provides it all its nutrients. A soil that is often forgotten yet plays the biggest role in its development.

Dear friends, Normality does not necessitate truth; rather the absence of the desire to find it.)

A mental/philosophical convulsion like the latter accompanies each of the physical contractions that I currently endure. Each longer than the former and causing greater disorder upon its end.

What makes my pain so seductive?

Its methodology. Its tangible effects. Its truth- present only upon experience.
Does it hurt to get shot? To have a bullet divide flesh and bear itself into you through force and the pressure of a handheld projectile mechanism.

Without thinking, we say yes. We recall media-produced bloodshed and bodies falling limp to the ground. But who can truly answer this question. Only those with the battle wounds confirming their experience.

We’ve made truth superfluous. And worse, we did so in an immaculate and virtually uncontestable manner.

But pain doesn’t wait for confirmation from the masses. It manifests itself without a written accord. It makes you question, and doesn’t yield to the folly of incorrect answers and premature judgment.

So I sulk, at a loss for what causes my pain. I remain seated, somehow comforted by the truth my body has found itself entangled in. somehow humored and contented by a longing that is no longer purely mental- but has found a companion in my physical being.

Choose your own ending.

Those books always were my favorite. Honestly it wasn’t for some amazing philosophical reason, I just hated reading, and the chance that I could technically finish a book without reading every page was extremely appealing.

Bambi is the one I remember best, I always ended up on page seven or some page way before the halfway mark, and id read some age-appropriate morbid sentence about how I had chosen the wrong destiny and had ended up killing the damn deer. That would be the absolute best feeling. Not the death part.. I wasn’t crazy, it was the idea that I had evaded the plight of reading another word, of continuing on in some perfunctory manner pretending to enjoy the “process” of reading; pretending that I was (consciously) benefiting from such an activity. I would lead Bambi into the woods, or not share a carrot or whatever, and just like that, I was finished. Thank you to the author of THOSE books- you earned me a few personal pan pizzas that I truly DID NOT deserve.

So why at six a.m may 21st 2010 am I writing about a book I haven’t read in over a decade? Because I’ve recently diagnosed myself with a mild case of depression. Since I’m trying to lose weight, I can’t take to alcohol to qualm my pain. Since we have no cable, I can’t repress my thoughts with the sex, scandals, and love that characterize current television. But instead, I have chosen to address my pain via word document.

During those years I formed a nasty little habit. Of evading. Of escaping. Of making the not-so-best decisions in order to reach some end. Then it was a Bambi’s death- ok, not so big a deal. Now, it’s my death- not yet physical, but you know there’s other stuff. My spiritual death, my emotional demise, I mean I’m a multifaceted being. Like a cat with nine lives, except the whole body isn’t restored upon the use of the succeeding life: the use of one life isn’t a strike on a blackboard, it’s a paralyzed limb [hope that makes sense].

It’s hard for me to go to sleep nowadays. I pull all-nighters for no reason. I look for things to blame, “a good book,” “great hulu series,” “espresso shots,” etc, but they all aren’t stopping me from shutting my eyes and resting. No, the internal warfare that is tivo-ed to play on the back of my eye lids immediately upon their closing is what prevents adequate sleep. There are literally scenes of my life and past actions that continuously torment me at this time at night (morning- for you technical fools).

I prayed today. I pray every day; I mean I read the Bible today. Psalm 142 I think… not sure and too lazy to check. I turned to it randomly as I ALWAYS do with the book of Psalms, and it was about restoration; about protection. It was a plea to God asking for guidance and shelter, for forgiveness, etc. I thought I could relate, but this guy was in danger and in need of all that stuff because he was like super religious. He had haters because he was SUCH a good Christian. Kinda not the same with me, so I nodded my head and changed a few words up and returned to my insomniac ways… Bible-downstairs, Me-upstairs. I mean there are PLENTY of stories in the Bible that can relate to mine, but I chose my own path-randomly, yes, but still it was my choice-and reached my own end. I gave up.

I found my old book of poems, and thought about how I haven’t written anything in years. How I just gave up on that. Without using this word document to enumerate all my recent and not-so-recent pitfalls, I can just conclude by saying I miss the old me. Or my current vision of the old me.

I’ve taken so many shortcuts in life and here I am now, exactly where I want to be, but not without the casualty of eight amazing lives, eight amazing limbs. I sit here crippled, presently incapable of displaying the optimism that once seeped out of my very being, presently incapable of discussing anything without coming to tears- full, unstoppable tears. Complete with heavy breathing and misplaced contacts. Presently incapable of sleep. I JUST WANT TO GO TO SLEEP.

And so the crowd wonders: what caused all this? What single event (or series of events for those crowd members that are a tad bit more rational) brought on this revolution of what was Alexis.

And I laugh, (not really... I’m depressed remember but it just sounded right) thinking – “they’ll never know.” Cause you won’t.

I won’t tell. There’s no need. I don’t need advice. I know my decisions were wrong. And I KNOW they were my decisions. I was coerced to do nothing. No guns were held to my head, no ransom needed, just me doing the usual. Just trying to get to some end. Evade the misery that life had become. Escape the problems I had created and perpetuated over the years, dismiss the ordinary and create some idealized “extraordinary” setting. Just trying to create my own destiny in the quickest way possible so I could get what I truly wanted. Not self fulfillment or pride in my life and actions, not lasting relationships, money or achievement. Nope… I wasn’t thinking that hard. I was only listening to my stomach. My greedy, selfish, little stomach. Truth is, I just wanted my own, fresh-out-the-oven, personal pan pizza.

love at first [listen].

I am in love with this guy. You, Mr. Tinie Tempah, are the reason I am starting this blog.

Check him out immediately. He will huff and puff and BLOW your MIND.


That is all.