I’d call her out on her little Twitter tirade, but we learned a long time ago that you can’t win any flame war with her. Because as soon as signs of her losing the argument show, she’ll take shit supremely personal.
Case in point, my man tried to call her out once while she was talking some nonsense about no good niggas in the household (recurring theme, too). He hit her with the swiftest one-two punch I’ve ever seen in a Tweet convo. We all knew he had her cold.
In turn, she flipped out, said a bunch of irrelevant shit, and called him ignorant.
We laughed and joked about it for a while, then moved on.
'Til one night after a party, we caught her on Broad & Cecil B, belligerent. She eyed my man and started buggin about how he made a good point but messed up because yada yada. But, at that point, two months had already passed since that feud. Shit wasn't even relevant anymore, yet there she was, passionately slurring her way through a half-witted rebuttal.
Lol! Close. More to the point, it was a “You’re a selfish virgin. Stop spamming Twitter with your lectures about how all men should partake in the nectars of the heavenly flower if you ain’t even gonna tug at the hose.”
There’s this chick I know who’s constantly broadcasting how much she loves to receive ‘le cunnilingus. Her pride in receiving is matched only by her complete and utter disgust at returning the favor for any guy at her disposal.
She’s also a virgin (not by choice, as she’d like for many to believe).
Now, I understand feeling apprehensive about oral sex and such. To the inexperienced, it can be a mental clusterfuck in more ways than one. Just the same, I can understand giving, and not expecting the courtesy to be repaid. I’ve done that from time to time.
But, once you work up the gall to demand your man to tongue wrestle with your clit, a line’s been crossed. I can’t fathom how a chick can make it a requirement for any of her lovers, and not even consider providing equal services. And have the nerve to wonder why she gets called a bitch.
Then again, these are the same types that yap that “All men ain’t shit” noise anyway, so perhaps there’s a larger issue taking place here.
You don’t think the illuminati is real? Walk onto a college campus and a strut your way into enrollment services or a finical aid office and then you try and tell me the devil himself is not among us. Right now you maybe listening to the Carter IV leak wondering why they didn’t just keep…
And, since I get paid mostly in tips, it all just goes in my wallet without me thinking about it.
But, I checked my pocket today, and I had $292 just sitting in the joint. And niggas around my way have been getting jacked lately. Two of my neighbors had their houses broken into in broad daylight.
I used to take walks around the way in the wee hours of the morning, but now I’ve got this sinking suspicion that I might get knocked upside my head. Like, there’s this imaginary beacon I broadcast that says “My dude over there is caked up, son. Let’s mop him right quick.”
So, I’m sitting here in my room watching “Game of Thrones” on HBO. I’m not all that familiar with the show, but somehow, I tune in just as this midget character is prepping to make some tender lovin’ to some slave chick. As I tried to understand how I could be both disturbed and amazed at the same time (on one hand, it’s a midget… but on the other, my man is getting his, knawmean?), I must’ve missed the transition, because next thing I know, all these soldiers are gearing up for battle, while Soldier Midget Guy (or S.M.G.) and his slave honey have some last moment pillow talk. I get caught in yet another tangent of thoughts when I realize how burly S.M.G.’s voice is, and ponder how such a commanding voice could be projected from such a tiny frame, and who found this guy in the first place. If there was a guild of little people with deep, baritone voices that talent agents just pluck from whenever it seems appropriate with their script.
(Stay with me, I’m going somewhere with this, I promise.)
Eventually, I manage to pull my head out of the fantasy cloud (filled with some deranged stuff at this point) fast enough to catch some powerful, yet simple dialogue.
S.M.G., with his helmet in one hand, caressing his slave honey’s cheek with the other, looks into her eyes with all the love in world, and says:
"If I die, will you weep for me?"
And she returned the same passion, but answered in a devious tone:
"If you’re dead, how would you know?"
Ever so gently, he replied before he headed off into battle:
"When I’m gone… I’ll know."
I don’t know why this stuck with me so swiftly, but it did. Truth be told, I think of death more than could possibly be healthy. Not so much about the afterlife, salvation, how/when it’ll happen, but moreso the kind of legacy I’ll leave behind.
In my head, the story always plays out so that, when I reach my final curtain call, I’d have left a deep enough impact to change one person’s life for the better. Teaching my unborn sons how to be stalwart men, and pass it on to their sons. Buying that neighborhood kid and soon-to-be world class producer his first vinyl record. Lending an ear to a woman who was in desperate need of comfort. Finding a cure for cancer Being there for others, to fill a need, to teach, to inspire, to challenge, to love.
I wonder about what my name will mean to the world long after I’ve turned to dust in the wind.
And, the funny thing about it is, I’ll never have any real way of knowing the answer to that age-old question that we all ask at one point on another. Will I be remembered? No clue.
But, what I’ve learned lately, is that it doesn’t matter in that sense. We can’t live our lives for the sole purpose of being remembered, because that defeats the point. We have to live, and be positive beings for the sake of positivity itself. Every little impact we leave, whether it’s recalled or not, makes a difference. Every smile you bring plants the seeds for thousands of future smiles. And, at the end of the day, if I can make one person share a genuine smile, then it’s been a great day.
It isn’t our place to know what lies ahead for us. Some questions will never be answered in our lifetimes. If they were, it’d take all of the fun out of the journey to seek those answers.
So, no. I don’t know what I’ll leave behind. I don’t know if anyone will weep for me. I don’t know if I’ll go down in a history book, or as another unmarked grave. I’ll live my life.