The United States has been contemplating and debating their participation in any kind of fight against North Korea for years, especially now with the events that have taken place over the last few weeks. There is no doubt that South Korea is in desperate need of help from the US and they will no doubt be receiving it shortly.
“It’s a secret society that everyone knows about. [laughs] I think that when people have a certain amount of success it needs to be explained in a way other than hard work and talent and being blessed. We’ve been seeing this since the beginning of time. The Beatles or anybody else that’s similar [to them]. That’s how you know that you’re really getting big. And I’m just like ‘Man, I’m rock star big? I get these kinds of rumors?’ I think it’s really silly but everybody needs stuff to talk about.”—Jay-Z, on Illuminati rumors (via iammarsz)
"Changing for someone isn't genuine, it's selfish."
This is what someone said to me while we were having an in-depth conversation a few months back about what we want in relationships. Said person had obviously had some troubled experiences with mischievous boys, because she was always the first one to blurt out about how men are no good (the irony of which, is that out of everyone in our group, she was the first to start dating a guy. Cute).
The problem with this rationale, I told her, is that, while if someone is quick to try and re-mold themselves to fit the image they think is most attractive to someone else is looked down upon, true change is deeper than that.
If I’m in love with you, truly in love, and you feel the same way, then you should know that I’d do absolutely anything for you. And if push comes to shove, and there’s something about my personality or my habits that becomes abrasive enough that it threatens our future, then, depending upon what it is, I’d do it to stay with the person I love. And I don’t think there’s anything selfish about that at all.
The girl gave an example of what a selfish change was, but I remember it being so blatantly ridiculous that I cast it out of thought and memory.
All I know is that relationships are supposed to entail a give-and-take dynamic. The only thing that would constitute as selfish behavior in my book, would be the party that refuses to change, regardless of the situation. Which, funny thing, I mentioned in our little talk, and I think I struck a chord in the girl-in-question.
Before I begin, I have to start by mentioning that the story I’m about to tell is relatively embarrassing, as I feel it reveals quite a bit of my own naivety about a particular substance that most of the hipster Tumblr community is oh-so-experienced with.
At the time of writing this, there have been exactly three times that I’ve smoked weed.
The first time was on a whim with some kids I’d met earlier this year. I took a couple hits from a bowl, but I guess I didn’t inhale properly or whatever, because I was sober as a judge.
The second time was at the chill party I mentioned a few weeks back. That time I only hit the pipe once. Again, no effect.
This time however, oh my.
A little backstory to set the mood.
It’s like, 10 PM on a Saturday night, and I’d made the executive decision to stay in for once, and relax, when I get a phone call from my friend. The night before she met this rough-looking girl at a social thing, who invited her to a party. She calls me because, apart from the rough chick and her roommate, she didn’t know anyone there. Now, I don’t want to go, but A: we’re in North Philly on a Saturday night, there’s no way in Hell I’m leaving two girls to roam the streets; and B: I’m kind of into this girl anyway, and I like spending time with her. Reluctantly, I agree to come along.
Let me paint a picture for you, so you’ll see how fucked the situation was. We’re in a shitty neighborhood, one. My friend doesn’t have this chick’s actual number, just her BBM (or whatever you Blackberry kids use), two. There’s a dirty stray cat scampering about, three. Vans and cars are slow-creeping around the block, four. We’re several blocks off of the main campus, five. Get the picture? Cool.
Eventually we make it into the place, meet the chick, and her friends, whatever. I’m still relatively apprehensive. I don’t like meeting new people at parties, especially house parties, because I always doubt the intent of said party-patrons.
This house is filled with like, 99% rough-dike-looking girls (no offense, ladies. Just calling ‘em like I see ‘em), so I’m just a little on edge. Then some dudes show up, and they’re talking about smoking. I feel like I need to do something to calm down, so I throw in. I’ve never actually gotten high before, but I figure it’s whatever. Can’t be too bad. Always open for new experiences, right?
At this point there’s cross-chat going on in the circle. Someone says something that I thought was along the lines of
"This shit is deaf!!" More on this later.
These dudes roll up three blunts, spark up, and before I know we’re in rotation. Puff, puff, “good shit here nigga!” pass. For a few minutes. I don’t feel a thing.
Then I start coughing.
Then I hear “Awww shit, here we go.”
I’m smiling a bit more, I notice. We’re all getting along. Someone says something, I can’t remember what, but we’re all laughing.
Cool beans, maybe this’ll be a good night? Someone’s laughing… is his mouth expanding? Why am I tilting my head? Did things just get darker? Why’s the room spinning? Did time just slow down? Why’s my voice so deep? And why am I dizzy…?
I don’t know exactly when I lost it, but before I know it I’m whispering in my friend’s ear “Yo… I’m fucked up. We gotta get out of here, like, now.” She laughs it off, asks if we can stay a few more minutes. I just repeat myself over and over, barely comprehending my own words.
Nothing is coherent anymore. Everything is moving. I barely remember getting up and walking out, getting into a mini-brawl with the doorknob, before spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Then I blacked out.
When I came too, my friend had my hand, and she and her roommate are giggling, and I think they had drinks still. I can’t even remember where we are, I just know shit ain’t right. It feels like my limbs aren’t even real. I look up, and I’m seeing my old neighborhood in Ft. Washington, Maryland. Looking up, I see my old house.
The images fade, I remember I must be somewhere in Philadelphia, but it feels like we’ve been walking forever, longer than it takes to get back to our dorms.
How many times have we crossed this street? I swear that’s the exact same China Express we crossed five seconds ago. Holy shit, am I trapped in a loop?
I’m crazy and I know it at this point. Half of me is embracing the madness, while what’s left of my conscious mind tries to make things right. I’m moving fast, and slow simultaneously. The time on my phone has been locked at 12:00 for what felt like a lifetime. I mumble some nonsense to my friend. Mention that there’s no way I’m okay. Mention that the shit I’m seeing is beyond description. I relinquish myself to her; trust her to guide me through my own ill-conceived illusions.
Most of the walk home was a blur. I know I tried to behave. At one point there was a shit load of cops on the street. By the time we made it to her room, I thought I was getting better.
That’s when the crazy kicked into overdrive.
Someone says my name, and that’s when I realize that up until that point, I’d forgotten who I was.
Full on hallucinations. I know someone’s talking to me, but she literally transforms into a talking outline made of yarn. The entire world looks like an elementary arts & crafts project. I try to close my eyes, but it feels like I can see through my eyelids. I see the brightest colors I’ve ever seen, and there’s this light shooting towards the right. Everything, in fact, is shooting towards the right. Universal enlightenment and unison with Brahman was obtainable through rapid rotation to the right, my mind told me.
When I realized that I was trying to spin my entire body in one direction to achieve transcendence was when I recognized how impossible my brain was. I fought off the crazy just enough to lay down, and I passed out.
The morning after, I’m barely alive. I know I’m not going nucking futs anymore, but my brain feels like it’s been starved of oxygen. The Earth is shifting beneath my feet. My head and neck were the only things that felt real. Everything else was just floating on it’s own.
My friend notices that I’m awake. We have a brief, strained conversation about my antics.
That’s when I remember something about the night, before the insanity set in.
"… It was called Death."
The plant, that we so haphazardly rolled into three blunts, lit on fire, and set in harmonious rotation, was called Death. Appropriate, because that’s exactly how I felt.
Admittedly, while I was much younger I was guilty of pawning off my limited knowledge of ‘le ol’ Metal Face and like, two of his dozens of works for an intimate knowledge and understanding with the underground scene of music ( I had only known of MM… Food? and Madvillainy at the time, too), I’ve noticed that DOOM is the go-to guy for anyone who claims that they’ve abandoned the mainstream.
It’s rather entertaining, too, because you can always tell the frauds from the ones who’ve truly done their homework.
Thanks to The Boondocks/[adult swim], pretty much any hipster that claims falsehoods of individuality are lightning-quick to spout off his name. Some may even quote some lyrics. The more skilled among them will give you word-for-word a couple songs.
But if you so much as mention Special Herbs & Spices, or DangerDOOM, or, God forbid, and of Madlib’s non-Madvillain works, they’re instantly stumped.
Now, I’m nowhere near expert level when it comes to Hip-Hop, but I am trying to learn, and I do my best to remain humble whenever I start to talk about what I know. Especially nowadays, because you never know who REALLY knows what’s going on. If you aren’t careful, you could end up getting schooled. Pretty harsh-like.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I feel like such an ass right now. I made one little promise to make a phone call and somehow managed to get so sucked up in a stupid conversation that I wasn’t even aware I was wasting time until hours later.
I never meant to stand her up like that. It was beyond just plain ass rude and inconsiderate. I don’t even know how she’ll react to me, if she’ll even acknowledge me at all today, and I can’t say I would blame her.
Ugh, this is keeping me awake right now. I want to talk to her now, but she’s probably asleep, and I feel like if anything somehow I’ll make this worse.
Some people need to learn how to react when they receive a compliment. Regardless of how you feel in that particular department, don’t try to drag the whole thing out.
So what if you don’t think you’re attractive? Someone else does, eh? So shut up, be thankful that not everyone thinks that you’re as prom-night-dumpster-baby ugly as you think you are.
On the flip side, it’s not an invitation to start feelin’ yourself. “Oh, well you know how I do, baby… I was just born like this. Swag!”
Wow. We know you’re pretty flexible, but no one really wants to watch you kiss your own ass.
Obviously there are situations where either is acceptable, i.e. if a person has serious self-esteem issues (which warrants an intervention of sorts afterwards) or someone is responding simply for the humor of it. That’s cool and all. This isn’t directed towards you.
This is for the people who beat themselves up for no good reason, and the people that think they’re the best thing since sex and sliced bread.
If someone gives you a “Hey, you’re kinda cute” or “Yo, you’re pretty good at—” or whatever the case may be. Just a simple thank you, and maybe even returning the favor will suffice. Then move on.
It lurked around every corner, ominous and without form. Stalking forward, its footsteps fell heavy, yet silent, as if it were devoid of weight. Truly, it was living shadow, evil incarnate, teeming with malicious intent. Creeping along the pathways of this construct of concrete and steel, the domain it claimed as it’s own. It’s only clothing, the gloves of apathy, stretched tightly over non-existant hands, it had work to do.
Out in the distance, a shriek echoes from a vacant alley. A woman flees, calling desperately for a savior.
Rape… Fire… Theft… Murder…
She shouts anything to grasp his ears. Under the pressure of frantic sprinting, stilleto heels give way, and she tumbles. Her flight thwarted, she huddles behind a parked sedan, body riddled with panic. Her suitor is only amused. He reaches for his belt…
One last, desperate distress call wails through out the night sky. It reverberates through bone-chilling winds. It reaches her would-be savior. From his window, he searches for the source of the anquished voice. Heart stricken with anxiety, he reaches for the phone. In an instant, he is struck with a wave of immobilizing fear. His own safety becomes his primary concern. He drops the phone, and closes the windows tight.
There was a time in high school where I had to write a story every morning for the first ten minutes of class. My senior-year English teacher (shoutouts go to you, Mrs. Hillian) gave us a topic to start off with for each class, and we had to fill the page or suffer the low scores.
At this time, I was perhaps at the zenith of my creativity. The first two or three minutes would be spent staring at the blank page, completely devoid of thought, followed by seven minutes of induced writing. More often than not, it felt as if these little writings were creating themselves, with my hand being used as a spiritual medium to channel onto the college-ruled composition notebook.
I must’ve written a little under a hundred short stories in that class last year. Hillian kept our notebooks, though, and all the writings in it. I only managed to save one story that I posted on Facebook for safe-keeping. I wish I had the forethought to do the same with all the decent ones. C’est la vie.
I’m thinking about this now, because after last night, I’ve been inspired to write again. Lyrics, stories, poetry, whatever.