A surreal tune I find myself in, daily.

Time, time, and time again, I find myself looking through a history book, and then turning on the tv, to find that I’m actually looking at the same page I just read; only in motion. Sad state of events going on in Jena, Louisiana. Pent up frustration, turned to racially spurned judicial debauchery, to an after orgy of segregation, and the march towards a morning after pill. Such deep routed hatred towards a state of affairs, draws media grubbing whores to the scene, like moths to a flame. Such a shame, that the moths are usually the viewers.

I’ll be the first to admit that I just ran with hyperbole, breaking through the hydro-gating fuels, locked in by past experiences, in America’s deep south. I had to dig down to find out the true story, and, its even more screwed up than the media coverage. For a quick second, rationality escaped my head, and I thought that they were marching for the freedom of a bunch of juveniles. Some of them are, but, black isn’t representing the imprisonment of someone who broke the law. Black, is being worn, as a beacon to show how utterly screwed up the state of race is in this country. Will this work…well, time will tell. I’ll just say this, “I would love to be proven wrong.” heh

The boys were thrown to the wolves, and treated a bit harshly. I’m not the biggest fan of approaching things violently, and I utterly despise pussies who jump people. They deserve to be in prison, and so do the list of people that caused the whole incident. Granted Louisiana law seems to be a bit different than things here, and some of them couldn’t be charged, on a technicality—no law for something that is considered a hate crime elsewhere—…I really do think that at the very least, the shotgun toting badass, needs to get his ass locked in the state penn. If you or me, would walk up to someone and yell, “LOL Shotgun owns you!” like this was counter strike, or some shit, we would be hung out to dry. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

I would be hopelessly floating in a bath of my own ignorance, if I were to think that race would slowly drip down the clogged drain, as I dried myself off with my own little utopia. Its never going to happen until we close our eyes, and never wake up again. I hope that one day, its hold on people will slowly lessen, and racism won’t be as strong as it once now. Right now Jim Crow is laughing in his casket, at both sides’ extremes. A man can dream though, no?

Looky here fellas. Us men, need to stick together! We shall not circum, to wearing scarves that match our shoes, and jeans that match our jackets, hairstyles, and “colours” of our shirts! No sir! As men, we shall continue to look like men, and not care about our appearances, because real men, don’t spend more than a single minute, looking in the mirror in the bathroom. So, while you have fake boys, running around playing dress-up, we will be the ones running America, and the rest of the world, in a timely fashion! Right! Right? Am I right….No.

Gender roles be damned. I like looking nice. I always have, and I always will. I couldn’t give a darn about spending more time in the mirror than most females do, because, I like looking, smelling, and tasting (yes sir/mam, I did just say that) nice. There is nothing wrong with it. I match more colors than kindergarteners during tests, and I keep my shoes cleaner than workers at car washes. My worst enemy is food, and dirt, and my arch rival is the girl who thinks she is sexier than any man, women, or child on Earth. I’ll go to the mall and spend umpteen hours, just perusing the store, leave, come back, and then buy like one thing. I’ll walk out of the mall with bags of random shit, because I care so much about my appearance, that I have to shame every female walking out of Macy’s with the sheer amount of superficial crap, I can carry without my carpal tunnel yelling, “fuck you”, as dollars signs fly out of my last paycheck, towards freedom of having frequent flyer miles in hands; credit cards be damned.

I’m a product of the deterioration and rewriting of manliness, and, a victim of feministic genetic narcissism, hard coded in my DNA. I blame the drug usage of the years during, and before the eighties. I’m about two seconds away from buying a purse, that I thought looked cute on some Asian lady I saw walking in the mall. I have a bracelets, and I’m about to buy more items that would have me pinned as being gay, and I honestly couldn’t give a damn if people cared for my new taste in fashion or not. That in itself is a lie though, because I wouldn’t be caught dead in a skirt, even if I thought I could pull it off.

I know that the few people reading this are probably thinking, “well damn. He’s a chick!”, or “he’s just like every other young person wasting money on superficial crap!” I’ll be sure to let you know how it feels to be on a period. I’ll call it, “That time of the month, from the eyes of a man once.” Really though maybe a bit of both, to be honest. I rarely shop, but, when I do, everything has to be perfect. I guess that stems from some emotional trauma I received from school, but, heh. That’s how I am. Funny thing that is though. Seeing man dress, become a bit more than what it once was. Times changing, or, Men wisening up to the faux rules of design, enforced by fashion police.

I’ll be sure to give up my man card, on the way out. *wink*

You know. I once looked at the moon, hoping to catch a falling star, and hoping that my wish would come true. Then I realized that those stars, were often times satellites, and that I wasn’t really sure what an actual falling star looked like. That all of the hopes I threw up to the skies, were actually prayers tossed into the heavens, and then beamed back down to my television set, in the form of Dragon Ball Z, Batman, and Swat Kats. Sooner after that, I slowly began to forget what prayers were, and folded hands became some sort of ritual into acceptance.  After I broke that practice, I began to long for some sense of recognition in being a being, in the grand scheme of things. Of course, learning never ceases, and I began to understand that I wasn’t required to be here, amongst anyone. All of my studies with destiny, and fascination with her husband, whom sits at the end of the timeline waiting to set the final date in history, and publish the book nobody shall ever read, proved to be full of inaccuracies and blurred perception. My mind was as chaotic and ridiculously paced as that last sentence.

After a bit of time, questions became answered questions, that weren’t really answers to anything; just statements said with a tone of intrigue, and a question mark on the end. Funny thing though. Even though I have a broken compass and no northern star…I realized that I could in fact, get off of my ass, and follow the jaguar on the trees, to get to the center of the forest. That I could in fact, climb that tree sticking up through the sun. That I could in fact, make an effort to jump onto the jaguar’s back, as it flies off into the sunset, like some sort of out of place character based in a twisted reality; conjured up by someone’s quick glances in a history book, as he writes the storyline to his overly complicated mess of an anime. And as we glide through the turning night, I would jump off onto the highway, and land right next to the police officer with the radar gun; clocked in at a 10.0 landing, at 75 miles per hour. Right as the cop walks towards me with his pen and pad, and right before he asks for my license and registration, I would run off with his flashlight, as his gun lit up the night sky. He would lose me in the fog. I would lose me in the fog. I would lose we in the fog, but, my questions would have then been answered.

I really need to get off the computer, and find that damned jaguar…