Why I Stopped Caring

I stopped caring.  This has been in the works for some time now.  School is about as fun as dried Play-doh.    Works definitely has its drawbacks as well.  I work because I need money for school and necessities to get me through the days.  But I did not have school, I likely would not want to work very hard either.  So staying in school is the lesser of two evils.  I do not want to do either of these options full time; but it is as if, at twenty, I have no better option.  I can wiggle my way through my last two years and try to make some decent money, or I can jump directly into the work world with an unfinished degree.

Good luck finding a hottie when your making a couple bucks over minimum wage working your ass off.  So the stakes escalate.  One can go the route to success and obtain money and females or sweat with a bunch of dudes talking about vagina thats out of their monetary league.

I definitely love money and I love estrogen-filled beings, so I suppose the choice is made for me.  But this does not mean I truly care anymore.  I do not care about working my ass off to get dicked around by teachers on a general power trip or fight to impress a boss that I can really care less about.  What a life.  It sucks to be stuck between doing what one wants and doing what one has to do to be successful; or, dare I say, what society views as "success."  So it looks like school and part-time work for me.    

Can't We All Just Get Along?

Why is there so much hate?  I am positive that I naturally have no detesting hate for anything at all: food, people, bugs, etc.  And I dare say that this is likely true for, with some exceptions, everyone.  All the hate that flows through the air of today's society resembles a toxic time-bomb that must be learned before being released.

Yeah, this is not a plot to waste your time.  I am referring to possible one of the more vulnerable nights of my life.  I impulsively skipped school and drove to a Boosie concert in Monroe, Louisiana.  This was not one of my "brightest crayon in the box" moments, but it was an important night for me.  We climbed out of the back of a pickup truck like stray cats scattering in an alley.  I looked forward into the blinding stage lights to notice hundreds upon hundreds of people getting ready to "do the ratchet."  Lacking a flat-bill hat and a whole bunch of swagger, I strayed ahead and was enveloped by the crowd only to realize that I was one of the few melanin challenged individuals in the crowd.  I am not going to lie, I was partially intimidated.

Just as I figured it was about time to suave my way to the back of the "hyphy" crowd, the enchanting tones of the one they call Boosie reeled me back.  Noticing that the music meant just as much to me as the crowd around me, the hostile environment become shockingly welcoming.  This may not have seemed like much to the untrained eye; but, at this moment, I realized that looks do not matter.  People respond more to how one handles his/herself.  To be sucked in and "jiggy" out in one piece kind of changed my general outlook on "fitting in."  If one acts like a boss; others will likely respond to that individual as a boss.
 

American Made Love Affair

Who doesn't love feeling like a boss? How can i feel like a boss? What do bosses feel like?   Yeah, these are common questions that we, as Americans, may commonly contemplate.  Well in my particular case, my 1969 Roadrunner is the answer to all these inquiries.  Twenty six foot of streamlined steel encase one of the most durable four inch reinforced frames ever manufactured.  This is my baby.  My pride and joy.  The key to the ignition sparks my imagination far before the belts turn and pistons forge back and forth in the stroked cylinders.
The Roadrunner is more than just a childish guilty pleasure.  Plymouth Roadrunners have been the objects of my affection for as long as I can remember.  The rumble of the three hundred and eighty three cubic inch engine made my mouth condensate like cold glass on a summer day.  The satellite lamp covers and phantom grill, both ahead of their time, transformed this humble machine into an angry beast.  The car is made to be the opposite of eco-friendly.  It was designed to burn fuel and rubber like no other all for that instant gratification of knowing, for one, that my car looks cooler than yours and, in sequence, that my car is point blank faster than yours.
For me, the opportunity to call one of these machines my own was the culmination of all those childhood dreams and hours spent drooling over my fantasy car.  This machine belongs in my driveway like a bum on a beach.
Every morning when I leave and afternoon when I return home, I strum my fingers over the unrefined body from trunk to front fender.  This car makes me feel like I was always meant to have it.  It is more than just a car to me; my Roadrunner proves that I am a boss.  All those long wasted hours turned into me having the thing I had always dreamed of in my grasp.    

Am I Really Lovin' It?

Those inviting golden arches always catch my attention.  Even if I am not hungry, they are always there.  Every block or, at least, every other mile those golden arches gleam down at me.  I am in the safety of my truck; those golden arches will not get me this time (thoughts that cross my mind).  I am stronger than last time.  I saw that documentary and how unhealthy those golden arches can make one, but they are so damn tempting.  Those golden fries and nuggets and buns.  Sesame seeds or none; still delicious.  Those smiling faces; they look so happy; will tis food make me that happy? what about that creeper behind the fryer? He does not look happy (maybe I will just stray from the fried food).  Everything else must be the key to that immediate happiness and satisfaction.  I love those golden arches and despise them just as much.  It is impossible to be healthy when that shit is so good.  Those tasty treats, golden and delicious, are nearly priceless in my heart; however, that dollar menu makes sure that I will always have the funds to enjoy just that much more of this guilty pleasure.

However, it seems that as soon as I finish indulging in all that those golden arches have to offer, I next saunter across yet another symbol that sparks my tummy's interest.  That quaint little white and red structure where cows continually propaganda me to eat less bovine and more poultry is always an attention-getter.  Those golden-fried chicken patties are something to revel in (the fact that they are so affordable is simply the icing on the cake).

Maybe it is just me, but these same damn buildings keep me in check.  Constantly waiting and gasping at the next promotional item or potential deal or bargain.

Welcome to my life.