Ten: Fifty-Seven

Ten: Fifty Seven
Is there anything quite as annoying as going out of town and seeing people you know? Anything quite as, "...ugh" as seeing a person you know and don't particularly care for when you're out of town?
How about having the person you know and don't particularly--hell, especially don't-- like see you and initiate a borderline racially insensitive conversation?
Yeah. All bad.
After working for three caffeine deprived hours straight, I found myself standing bleary eyed in the line at Biggby. While waiting to place my order I felt my phone vibrate. Without looking down, I reached into my pocket, extracted my cell and silently cursed the fools that invented the chain letter and it's modern day equivalent, the forwarded message. Without bothering to tell the sender that if God was really testing me I was too tired to care about failing, I silently took a step forward as the line advanced.
I felt someone tap my shoulder. "Excuse me," they said as I turned around. "I think you dropped your mo--LauRen?"
Oh, fuck. Not this bitch, I thought to myself.
Plastering my fakest, "It's so nice to see you! Won't you please go play in traffic now?" smile on my face, I thanked her for telling me that I had dropped my money. She handed it to me and gave me an unwelcome and very much unwanted hug.
"So how are you? What are you doing up here in Grand Rap--do you live here now?"
I awkwardly patted her on the back while trying to disengage from her embrace. "I'm alright, thanks. No. I'm just visiting for a few hours before I head back to Lansing."
I noticed the line had moved out of corner of my eye so, with what I hoped would be one last forced smile, I turned and took a step forward. There was only one person standing in the way of my coffee and my hasty exit from the shop when I felt her hand in my hair.
"Oh, my God, LauRen. Your hair is so soft! It looks like it'd be...well, y'know. Rough."
The needle on the imaginary record playing in my head dragged across its surface and the music stopped as I turned to face her. "...Excuse me?" My internal DJ changed the song from Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 3 to Lil Scrappy's "Head Bussa" as she blushed at her gaffe.
"Oh, I didn't mean it like that! It's a good thing. I like the 'natural' look on you! Makes you seem...ethnic. You look like you could be on your way to a Black Cat--Lion? Panther?--meeting in your leather jacket."
Oh. My. God. This bitch--this bitch tried it.
With my hands balled into tightly clenched fists at my side, I was about to whirl around and deliver a spinning kick to the side of her head when I saw the barista motion for me to come forward and place my order out of the corner of my eye.
I don't think she realizes or appreciates the fact that my Wild Zebra latte saved her reproductive organs from being introduced to my fists.

…Can I talk my shit again?

So I'm cleaning my room, right? Well, that's what I told people I've been doing at any rate. I've actually been enjoying a bit of Me time locked away here in my admittedly messy ass inner sanctum. Y'know, catching up on my much needed beauty sleep^[1] and sorting my nail polish collection and things of that nature. The finer things in life if you will.
That is, however, until I got bored enough to hijack Egg’s laptop and logged onto Aintshit Social Network # 3:
Tagged.com.
For the people out there that’re blissfully unaware, Tagged is a bit like MySpace meets Black Planet in terms of ratchet nutfuckery. It’s the type of site that makes you wish you could give yourself a real life virus scan in terms of general skeeviness. In short: it’s an awesomely bad place to hang out when you’re bored and it’s filled with the sorts of things that’ll make you love and loathe the Internet.Okay, mostly loathe it, but still. I can’t call it all bad. There’re actually quite a few decent people on there. Quite a lot of thirsty gentlemen in search of a good quenching, but hey, that’s the Internet for ya. If my DM inbox on Twitter could talk…
So there I was, lounging on my bed, listening to Gemineye’s “Penny for your Thoughts” on YouTube when I looked at my notifications and noticed that I had new messages. I clicked the link hoping that someone that I could actually stand had written me a message and let loose a string of curses that would’ve made the proverbial sailor blush when I found out who it was.
You see, for the past day and a half or so, this fool has been harassing me. At first, I thought it was funny in a pathetic sort of way, but now…
Not so much, no.
Dude has sent me a ton of messages—upwards of two and three at one time, smfh—and trying to get the exact order of things down has me confused, but here’s the latest round of What the Fuckness that he’s been sending me,
(Read from the bottom up; you know the deal)

 

Noticing that I changed my name to “Kyrie Eleison”, he sent a separate message asking if this is in fact my real name

 
By now, as I’m sure you understand, I was losing my cool, so when he sent me this

I decided to reply with

Which somehow turned into this
(You may have to click to enlarge these last few messages)


To which I replied

 
And he fired back with

I have no intention of responding by the way. I’m not too big a fan of being sexually harassed online.
I think the moral of today’s story is that the Internet can be a wonderful place full of many joys and wonders, boys and girls. But, if you happen to be me, it’s usually like the club on those rare occasions that I decide to go: full of horny, crazy old bastards.
Anyway doe.
If you’re one of the few people that’s been wonderin’ why I haven’t posted on here—I know, it shocked me to find out that people actually cared, too—you can find me sporadically posting over at The (Infamous) Life: V. 2.4.
Kbye.
♥ 

^{1 if you’ve seen me recently (…or at all) you would understand what I’m saying here is the absolute truth.}

Zero-Three:Forty-Nine.

It’s dang near four in the AM^[1] and guess who’s not just getting in from a a night of fun filled, booze driven debauchery and general fuckery? Yerp; that’d be me.
Not that I could’ve gone out even if I wanted to. My funds are currently set on “Bish, you’re broke, fuck you think you’re goin’?” and my sick aye-ess-ess is laid up in bed with my ferocious beast, a box of Kleenex and a woefully drippy nose. Beside that, I don’t commit random acts of drunkenness on Sunday nights. Maybe it’s just paranoia from spending all my life in church, but I always feel like God is watching me especially hard and the fact that I felt a heavenly, “Yeah, I’m judging you right now,” side-eye being thrown at me as I drank (ate? Discuss) a jello-shot the one time I chose to get drunk on a Monday night/Tuesday morning^[2] almost made me want to give up drinking …then Tia ordered me a Margarita.
Which I drank. And it was delicious.
Judge me.
I have to be up and at ‘em to spend another exciting day tutoring and searching for a job in less than three hours, so, here’s to that.
G’night.
♥

<sup>1 Although lawd knows if and when this’ll get typed up and posted. I’ll be gotdanged if I get on my laptop to do anything other than watch a porno at dang near four in the morning.
Not that I, y’know, watch por…eff it, I stand by my statement.

2 A couple of weeks ago, The Bestie took me for drinks after The Egg Donor decided to subject me to yet another of her damn near daily screaming tirades about absolutely nothing at all. Being the dependable drunkie that she is, Tia took me to a bar where a huge Long Island Iced Tea, a couple of jello-shots, one and a half Margaritas and three drunken games of pool—all of which I won but only because Tia’s drunkish ass sunk the 8 ball early in every game—turned my scowly frowny face upside down. It also made me wanna strip down to my boyshorts and play in the snow, but that’s another story.</sup>

Fuh Q

Whoever raided and subsequently devoured my entire stash of chocolate is gonna get kicked in the eye and punched in their reproductive organs. Just gon’ take my ish and then go about their business like everything is everything. Psh, no.
Bastid(s).
Ugh. I’ve been more or less out of it, suffering from the annoyingly painful, semi-monthly effects of my period ¹, all week, smh. I’ve been moodier than usual, annoyed by everything and everyone, bloated like a muhfucka and prone to insanely random, utterly nonsensical crying jags.
The other day, I was listening to music and beating my high score on Bejeweled 3 filling out job applications online when I burst into tears for no effing reason.
I mean, don’t get me wrong or anything, a new job ² would rather amazing, I can’t eem lie, but I assure you, it’s not somethin’ that I would typically cry over. The music I was listening to at the time ³ couldn't have possibly triggered my random ass crying.
And these weren’t pretty, Miss Universe accepting her crown and superficial fame. Nope. These were screw-face, eyes all red, it hurts to breathe, bawlin’ like a bitch tears, smh.
Fuck kinda hyper hormonal shit is that?
♥

^{1 or, as it’s affectionately known here in Chez Ren: “That week where I’m all, ‘Damn you to Hell and back for this shit, Eve! Didn’t nobody tell yo’ ass to eat the fruit from the tree, heffa! Where' the hell is my Midol, gotdammit?!’”. This is a very stressful time for me and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t judge me for my lack of eloquence, please and thank you.}

^{2 If I have to spend another semester tutoring and correcting, properly citing and typing papers for college students, I’ll go crazier than I already am. It’s bad enough that my methods of teaching my Psych students the difference(s) between negative and positive  reinforcement include conducting mini-experiments where I reward them with fresh baked cookies and/or punish them by throwing things at them for wrong answers. Don’t judge me; I get results. Dammit.
3 “Real Nigga Roll Call” inspires me to do a lot of things—buss a couple heads; knuck cuz gotdammit, I’m buck and shake my imaginary dreads chief among them—but crying like I just found out Santa isn’t real and that Ray-Ray has been fuckin’ that ho Sharquinetta and I had to find out from that skanky sloppy slorebucket Eggplant Peaches after she called me to borrow money again isn’t one of them.}

Confessions of a CATA Commuter

I feel as though I'm spending way too much time here at the bus station.
Just this week, I've witnessed a gaggle of bird brained, basic bitches almost come to blows over lawd knows what and tried to figure out how in the hell the old man sitting next to me wet his Depends and managed to smell like caramelized onions and apple cider vinegar with a hint of lemongrass. Who has gourmet urine? Ugh... I also feel as though I'm about to smack this ol' no eyebrow havin', nekkid mole rat lookin' bitch for lookin' at me like I'm the one who made her ugly. She better check her parents before she throws another side eye at me. I'll smack her wit' a tube of Carmex and a bottle of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion and leave her doin' the "Naked Mole Rap." Eff she thought this was?!
But I digress.
So anyway, I'm sure that by now you've noticed that I've slacked off and loafed by neglecting my baby, The (Infamous) Life, and, to a lesser extent, the randoms who stop by or stalk it. Ooops, my bad, many apologies and all that. I'd excuse myself by saying, "I've been busy," but I don't feel like it. Which isn't to say I haven't been  busy or whatever because I have been, I've just been letting life stand in the way of most things (infamous) which, unfortunately, includes this here blog of mine.
Before you roll your eyes, mutter "nobody cares, b" and hit CTRL + W to close the tab, finish reading, I promise to keep this one short...er than a lot of my old posts. Walk wit' me for a minute.
During the latter portion of the year, things here in the Wonderful Realm of Ren turned painfully reckless in the most literal of senses. I was this close to committing patricide with a Wiimote long story; don't ask after Christmas dinner at Nana's and I found out that a really good friend of mine passed away after I got a friend request from "him" on Facebook. Things at home have gotten...lawd, this shit just a mess. Fights on the daily, raised voices, thrown shoes, slammed doors and stony silences just scream "home sweet home," right? And then, of course, there's this whole non-situation with He Who Must Not be Named...yeah, that nigga.
There's so much to say on this shit that I wouldn't even know where to begin so guess what? I won't. I'll just say that I'm preparing myself for when next month falls through--as it inevitably will--shake my head, curse my relentlessly rotten luck, keep it pushin' and hop my ass on the bus.
Here's to another year filled with inconsistent infamy, y'all.
♥

Meh…

I hate it when saints people use prayer as a saved, sanctified and filled with the Holy Ghost way of cursing at or threatening others. Hardly anything irritates me more about today’s “Christians” in fact. 

Well, there’s that whole crusade against homosexuality, but I’m choosing not to speak on that for the time being. I might find myself excommunicated from the Church of God in Christ and I personally do not want to spend an entire day in church with the Baptists. 

They do have a tendency to make it to the buffet before the Methodists though… 

There is unspeakable power in prayer and I seriously doubt that the Lord, our God appreciates you abusing that power by telling someone that you’ll pray for them when what you really mean is “Bitch, shut yo’ ass all the way up before I Spartan-kick yo’ ass down a flight of steps!” 

Yeah. Pretty sure He frowns upon that. I dunno; I could be wrong. 

*shrugs*

“Look at your life; look at your choices”

Seems like every other week, I find out one of my friends or casual acquaintances is pregnant, getting married or both. I’m not judging. And really, I’m happy for ‘em, I am. Sure, Nana is starting to resent the fact that, at 21, I’m not married and have yet to give her any great grandchildren, but, that’s a grip for another time; back to the topic at hand.
Now, for every couple that’s engaged, married and/or pregnant for the right reasons—I deserve a cookie for for choosing to take the high road and not make a broken condom joke. Chocolate chip, please and thank you—there’s at least one simple ass person that thinks getting married or having a child is going to fix whatever’s wrong in their relationship. Giiiiirrrrrrlllllllll…
*sigh*
I’ve tried and failed to understand this shit. I mean, really. The pseudo-solutions that these dumbasses geniuses have come up with are going to lead to more complications, nonsense, drama and bullshit later on down the line.
Example:
If your girl is a self-centered, whiny, childish ass bitch with a flair for the dramatic and a gold medal in homie hoppin’, what makes you think that getting married is going to make the fact that three of your boys can tell you what that mouth be like okay? Cuz it won’t. Basically, all you’ve done is make her a married self-centered, whiny, childish ass bitch with a flair for the dramatic who’s smashin’ the homies on some Danger shit whenever you aren’t around.
And ladies…what makes you think for a second that having a child on some “let me trap this nigga, that’s the way to make things right” ish is the right thing to do?! Really? You think that bringing an innocent life into the world is going to suddenly make dude straighten up and fly right and stop doin’ whatever it is he’s doin’ that you have an issue with?
Girl, boo.
There’s a good to better than great chance that the only things that are going to happen* are he’ll deny the child, y’all will end up on Maury and when it comes out that little Jamaquandrell Jr. is indeed his son, dude will resent the hell out of you. Not only that, but he’ll probably end up duckin’ and dodgin’ you and your cousins to avoid paying child support for the next 18 years.
Tell me:
Do you honestly want that for yourself?

 

 

*results are typical in a world with crappy Daytime TV

Nil Nisi Malis Terrori

“No, I ain’t bitter; I don’t give a fuck, but, I’ma tell you like this…”

As of right now, I’m still completely and really rather removed from the state of mind known as “in the mood”. So, to commemorate this momentous and wonderfully effed up occasion, I’m gonna take this time to get some ish off my chest. Y’know, address a few of the things that have been on my mind and nerves as of late…and maybe type up a few of the blogs I never got around to posting.
I, myself, don’t know exactly what I’m about to say. I haven’t thought that far in advance yet. So, as a bit of fair warning, there’s a chance that I’ll say some things that you don’t or won’t agree with. Some things that those of you with an overly inflated sense of self-importance may take to be a personal attack on you and your character or some asinine shit like that. A very real chance.
No VH1.
Any other day, I’d act like I care and apologize for what you mistakenly took to be subliminal shots being popped in your general direction while you were rooted firmly in your feelings, but, y’know what that mysterious collective of individuals known only as “they” say:
“If somethin’ hits too close to home, move.”
Honestly, I’m not looking for confrontation, so, if you’re feelin’ some type-a-way about the potentially broad, far reaching and general ass statements in the following entries, it’s strongly suggested that you confront whatever’s in you that’s responsible for making that particular type-a-way before you come at me. I don’t have the time, patience or the very will necessary to deal wit’ yo’ ass. 
So, I won’t.
♥

Furor Scribendi

This probably won’t come as a shock to many of y’all, but I’m so far removed from “in the mood” right now. So. Effin’. Far.
As a matter of fact, I’m about ready to locate and choke the stuffing out of a Care Bear Cousin or two, but ya know what? While sickeningly appealing, the thought of wrapping my recently manicured hands around Brave Heart Lion’s neck and squeezing until his little plastic eyes pop off and his fluffy white brains come oozing out of his ears isn’t going to change anything. Dammit.
I’m just…I’m so…ugh right now.
My annoyance and current frustrations would be best expressed by the sounds of groans, screams and the splintering, cracking crunch that piece of plywood made as I kicked hole after hole into it. I don’t even have printable words for this shitstorm of malarkey, smh.
See, right now? I’m at a point where I want nothing more than to grab the boxcutter I keep under my pillow, the baseball bat I have stashed under my bed and the tubesock with a rock in it that I have hidden away in my drawer and go about rearranging someone’s facial landscape. But I won’t. I want to—you have no freakin’ clue how much I want to, but the fact remains that it won’t be happening. Not today at least. Maybe.
I may just have the Devil’s temper and one hell of a flair for violence and improvised weaponry, but at the same time, I still possess a bit of the good sense that the good Lord blessed me with. Besides that…
I’m too cute for jail.
♥

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmahanakwanza

It’s that time of year again, folks.
The Salvation Army has the elderly hanging around your favorite Wal*Mart with their little bells just a ring-a-ling-lingalin’ as they freeze their geriatric butts off in the name of your spare change. Cheapskate boyfriends are planning to breakup with their girlfriends to avoid buying a Christmas present or just to kick it with a no morals ho-ho-ho. All around the country, children are writing letters to Santa Claus and praying the “Please, please, pleeaaassseeee let there be a snow day” prayer before falling asleep nightly as their parents look for better hiding places for the presents they maxed out their credit cards buying.
Yerp. The holidays are about to anally rape us again. Where’s the peppermint stick lube? upon us again, so you know what that means.
Snow! The horrible annual Christmas play at church! Snow! Racist, homophobic, ratchet ass Rudolph the Niggafied Reideer! Snow! Christmas carols!
…Did I forget to mention the snow?
This morning when I woke up—which, thankfully wasn’t as traumatic or painful as yesterday—I was told that Boogie had a snow day and that I would have to get out of my warm, comfortable bed to shovel the accursed snow. Which, by the way, was a lie. Yes, it snowed, but only a little bit. However, we do have to remember that I live in Michigan—we’re shaped like a frickin’ mitten, for Santa’s sake—and our bipolar weather is apt to change in the blink of an eye. Eh…
At any rate, Caramel Macchiato will be ready for her yearly showdown with that jive turkey, The White Devil soon. Now to find a decent pair of gloves.
Shazaam.
♥

Fortes in Fide...(?)

So, yeah. I loafed. As in…majorly. As a matter of fact, I'm not even sure if you can classify this as “beyond major loafage” since I’ve—for lack of a better word—loafed so badly. Or would that be “poorly”? Whateva; you know what I mean.
I’ve been meaning to update The (Infamous) Life for the longest, but, as I already stated, I’ve loafed in a most horrendously egregious and beyond major fashion. It’s just that I’ve been so busy tryin’ to be so many things to so many people that I kinda forgot to take some time out for lil ole (infamous) me. Which is more than understandable given the situation(s) that I’ve gotten myself into. Not that, y’know, I’m complaining or anything like that. Because I’m not.
…Walk wit’ me for a minute here.
Right now, I’m tryin’ to keep the all inclusive “it” together for myself and everyone else while everything around me is literally and figuratively falling apart. Not only that, but I’m trying to metaphorically light the path for a weary traveler, but the way is littered with obstacles, darkness is quickly closing in and I’m starting to wonder if my metaphoric light will be enough to bring them home.
This has all been added onto my existing duties—shoulder to cry on, plotter of ingenious, possibly illegal revenge schemes, etc—as la señora de (infamia), mind you. Sounds like super fun times are ensuing here in the Wonderful Realm of Ren, right?
Yeah…not so much, no.
I have faith—Lord knows I have faith—that everything is gonna work out. I do. Because I know that faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen (Hebrews 11:1) and that without faith it’s impossible to please God (11:6). And I’m also quite aware of the fact that faith without works is dead (James 2:17) so I’m workin’. I am. But it’s like…how do I walk and live by faith and not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7) when all I see are the many impossibilities and improbabilities of the current situation(s)?
And yeah, okay. I’m sure that whole “good things happen to those who wait” thing applies, but what do you do when it feels like all you’re doing is waiting for that quote unquote “good” to happen?
Again: I’m not complaining and no, this isn’t a pity party so I’m not asking you to be my plus one see what I did right there? It’s just…even I have my doubts sometimes. Which sucks because it makes it seem like I’m doubting God and I’m not…right? I don’t think I am at any rate. Doesn’t feel like it. Not really.
But anyway, that’s just what I’ve been up to lately. The tip of the figurative iceberg that threatens to sink the SS (Infamy) if you will.
Kinda makes ya girl wonder if there are enough lifeboats onboard…
Figuratively of course.
♥

It’s Been a Long Time…Here’s Why I Left You

I’ve been tryin’ to come up with something relevant, irreverent and sufficiently sarcastic to open this post with, but I’m drawing a ridiculously large blank as I jot these words down on my mini Top Flight legal pad.
Now, y’all should know me by now. I am the reigning Queen of Sarcasm, able to serve subtle if I so choose shade with the best of ‘em, yet here I am. Wielding my mechanical pencil as my scepter, I’ve tried to command the words to come forth and do my queenly bidding, but my subjects have proved to be disloyal as they continue to revolt. The only thing that I’ve managed to bring on is a royal headache.
Bleh.
So anyway, I’m sure that by now my handful of readers and lurkers I see you, Gemayel have noticed the appalling lack of posts here on The (Infamous) Life. As much as it would amuse me—and it would so amuse me—to hit y’all with a rather extravagant “See…what had happened was, um” lie story there would’ve been a spelunking midget, a seventh son of a seventh son and a spelling bee, the truth of the matter is I’m far too lazy to do all that. So, you get the truth.
Exciting prospect, innit?
As of late, I’ve been…blocked. Not just where my writing is concerned although yeah, there’s that too, but it’s deeper than that.
Have you ever been involved in a situation or gone through something that left you struggling to figure out how to deal with its aftermath? Ever thought that you were completely over said situation when randomly and completely out of the blue, somethin’ hits you and makes you realize that you aren’t over it? That whatever it is that you’ve been doing is just your way of avoiding the issue?
That was me. Kind of.
There wasn’t just one specific thing that happened with me; there was a bunch of shit that was and still is going wrong, and my way of coping with the multitude of losses and the straight up fuckery was to not deal with it. Distract myself from my various situations and whatnot.
Me? I’d much rather invest my time and energy into something that I know won’t work instead of thinking about something that failed in the past so I can feel some sort of perverse pleasure in knowing that I was right. So, that’s what I did.
‘Ey. I never said it made sense.
That was then, though. I can’t keep this shit up anymore. I’m behind on several deadlines—self imposed and otherwise—and I have a sneaking suspicion that this whole avoidance thing has been fueling my rather annoying case of insomnia. Tis a rare occurrence for me to get to sleep before 0400 and I’m lucky if I get more than three hours of it at any given time. Yay, Ren.
So, uh…yeah.
It’s been great, finally updating my blog and all that, but I have to take advantage of this non-writer’s blocked moment and put in some Goode work, so now it’s time to say goodybye
*rub-rub-rub-snap-clap*
Yeah, I took it there.
♥

Insert Sarcastic and/or Rude Title…Here

“They tellin’ me I ain’t shit, it’s quite true; constipation takes patience.”

So, I’m sittin’ here, tryin’ to figure out if I give a fanga in the middle and a soy sauce packet about the fact that XX and XY are currently givin’ me the stank face, right? Y’know, like I’m all afraid of them and shxt?
Welp. I just decided that I give neither a fanga in the middle, a soy sauce packet or a four day old egg roll as I throw them my patent pending “don’t forget I’ll be choosing your nursing home so act accordingly” side eye from my table.
*sigh*
I’ve got a headache that’s only being exacerbated by the fact that
1) Bowling alleys are generally loud and Royal Scot is proving to be no exception. Yay.
2) My freakin’ mp3 player has decided to play nothing but songs that remind me of He Who Must Not Be Named which makes me sad and in turn irritates the eff outta me. I hate being sad, dammit.
3) Erm…hello. I’m stuck with The Chromosonal Donors and The Sibling. I’d rather be somewhere enjoying a nice bowl of organic kitty litter.
Oh, how could I forget that
5) XY has recently taken to wearing his wedding ring and referring to XX as his wife…
*blows apple cinnamon flavored chunks*
Jesus be an electric fence all around his obviously addled state of mind every day. And that’s all I have to say on that.
As I’m so fond of telling anyone who’ll listen, I’ll be discussing my multitude of issues with a therapist one day soon. You’ll thank me for not elaborating further when you see my therapy bills; believe me.
♥

And on the Sixth Day...

“Don’t be disappointed; your mind is great…so use it to escape.”

There’s a very fine line between “angry” and “pissed the effyouseekayoheffeff”. A very fine line. Tell me, which side of said very fine line do you think I happen to be on at this moment in time?
Under normal circumstances; I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you just what’s got my boy-shorts in a comedic twist, but these? Yeah…normal circumstances these ain’t. Dwelling on any of the reckless, totally uncalled for bullshxt that’s currently occurring in the Wonderful Realm of Ren would probably piss me the effyouseekayoheffeff to the point that I go on a targeted choking spree. So instead, to avoid wrapping my in desperate need of a manicure hands around certain people’s necks, I’m gonna touch on just a few of the things that are annoying me and be out.

1) My uterus is scheduled to begin it’s monthly mollywhopping of my intestines in a couple of days and everywhere I go, stores are out of my Hershey Special Dark chocolate bars. Those, along with my assorted heating pads and various bottles of Midol and ibuprofen, are the only things that keep me alive and semiconscious during that time of the month.
2) The dude who just rolled up on me callin’ himself tryin’ to holla just blinded me with his bright ass, “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” meets Tropicana Pure Premium low pulp, orange polo and my eyes have yet to adjust.
3) The number of people who feel the need to harp on my quote unquote “anger issues” is slowly yet ever so steadily rising. The day that people realize that the only effin’ issue I have in regards to my “anger” is with people who do dumb shxt that pisses me the effyouseekayoheffeff can’t come soon enough. For example
4) Egg doesn’t seem to realize that she’s acting just like Sperm did with El Jefe.
I don’t give a fanga in the middle about the fact that they’re “dating” each other again…I’m lyin’ like shxt.
She’s the one who told me that all men are dogs I know, I know. Bitter much? and then she goes and get’s with the main munfxcka that needs to be put down? After telling me that I “deserve so much better” than the guys that she thinks I’m involved with, she goes and gets back with that? Anyway…
XX insists on trying to force that “man” down my throat, barking commands like “speak” at me whenever he’s around, which is, as I already said, exactly what he used to do in regard to The Broad-Backed One. If I wish to acknowledge his presence, I’ll do so. After all, that’s what he did to me for the past fifteen years of my life. Turnabout is fair play and all that, right? Whatever.
Since I’m still on the subject of The Egg Donor and am moving swiftly away from the topic of “dear old dad” *side eye*…
5) Egg ganked my laptop earlier in the week while I was listening to WQXR and cleaning my room and has yet to return it even though I have more than met her terms and conditions. Once again; she’s reneged on the deal that she’s forced me into by trying to get me to do above and beyond that which I needed to do in order to have my frickin’ property returned to me. Ugh.
I miss flirting with talkin’ to the Young One on ooVoo feel free to hit me up on there or Skype: LauRenxExCarter
Sure, I get to talk to him on the phone all the time which is cool, but I kinda miss him mocking my movements on cam. It’s cute.
lol.

♥

Cinder. Elle. E.

“Don’t sound too good; it sounds ‘Tainted’ to me.”

By a show of hands, how many of y’all would be surprised if I were to say that I’m not in a good gotdamn mood right now? Nobody? Okay…now, by that same show of hands, how many of y’all wouldn’t be surprised at all?
Damn, don’t everyone raise your hands at once!
Sheesh.
I’ve been cleanin’ all gotdang weekend and it’s hot as grits on Al Green in the upstairs rooms of my house. I’ve got a ginormous  see: Rihanna’s twelve point nine head headache brought on by The Chromosonal Donors innate sense of idiotic inanity. My mp3 player, in between annoyingly frequent spaz outs, has been playing songs that remind me of He Who Must Not Be Named. The very fact that HWMNBN is on my mind right now saddens and annoys me, as does the fact that I have my own personal Lord Voldermort out this bish.
Hmm; what else…
For reasons that are still unknown to me, I’ve been locked out of my main Twitter account and have been forced to use my backup. Twitter and their effing “support” team are making me jump through hoops to get my password changed and with every support ticket and request for a password change that I file, I get more and more aggravated. If they keep up the bullshxt, I’ll be forced to switch my social networking allegiance to FaceBook or even *gulp* MySpace. Didn’t take Kat Stacks this long to get her ish back. Within hours she was back to spreading venereal disease and hearing AIDS with her cackle on the Interwebnets and I can’t get a simple password change request answered?! 
Bullnonsense.
I just had a slight wardrobe malfunction and my creepy neighbor witnessed it. Ewww. Dad Sperm won’t get the eff outta my house and hearing Mom Egg fawn over him makes me want to blow gooey pink and yellow chunks. All. Over. Them.
Twice.
Oh yeah. I sorta kinda almost but really do miss The Young One too. Just a little bit…
lol, aight, my rant and the breeze that’s comin’ through my window made me feel just a tad bit better. I’m gonna turn the volume on my Sony all the way up to 30 and, despite my throbbing headache, plug in my Sharper Image headphones, go downstairs and find somethin’ to eat. So uh, yeah. Until I feel the need to rant and/or rave again, I’m out.


♥


 

Check. Mate.

“Try to slick a can of oil; who you think you foolin’?”

Let me break this down and put it in a format that you’ll understand:
you cannot play me; you will not win.
It is both impossible and improbable so I suggest you quit the utterly pointless, thoroughly unnecessary and all around tiring games. You’re far too old for this shit and I expected so much more from you. Hell, we both deserve more than what you’re currently givin’ and I can’t wait for the day that you finally get it together.
Not for me; oh no, I’m more concerned with you gettin’ it right for yourself.
But until that day comes, if you wanna play games? Fine; we can play. This isn’t checkers anymore, my King. You and I? We’re playing chess.
Don’t fuck around and lose your Queen.

-Leslie Elizabeth

excerpt from the THD’s
♥

Recollections of a Rensomniac

“Listen to my story and you’ll know just who the bastard is.”

The time is currently 2:14 AM and surprise, sureffinprise: I’m wide the eff awake. Once again. Ugh.
I don’t have time for this ish, yet here I am, Beethoven’s String Quartet in C, Op. 29 is playing softly on WQXR, there’s a liter of Deja Blue to the right of me and and a pencil complete with fresh bite-marks in my hand, scratching quietly along the page. I should be in my bed, snuggled up with my ferocious beast of a stuffed lion E, yet again, here I am.
I haven’t been able to fall asleep at a decent hour for the past three weeks or so. It’s either because I didn’t get to sleep until 6:45 one morning after staying up and out with The Bestie and The Toy until 5:00, or it’s because of what I discovered the morning before that. Long story short:
Bitches and those who should know better kill me with the shit they do and the pointless lies they tell.
If you feel the need to lie about a situation, not once, not twice but multiple times? To someone who knows and accepts the real you, no matter what you do? You know what you’re doin’ is wrong.
…but I’m not goin’ there, not tonight. Let me throw up these tracks of the day and be out until next post.
First up is QuESt yes, again. He’s one of my favs, what can I say? with the P.ersonal assisted track
”Ego”

one of my favorite selections from WMRB?

Next is Personal with
”Lose Tonight”

from his upcoming “Sydney in Theory” EP
I’m lovin’ the alternative-hip hop feel of this track. He managed to fuse two of my favorite genres of music and create a more progressive sound with help from lyrics like

I’m more ‘bout myself, I am on my own shit…
pricked from the thorns of the grapevine
a rose that emerged from the concrete stone
a stick of dynamite, the thought that I’d be blown
they don’t even know the shit my mind be on…

Last, but most certainly not least is
“Exhibit Q”

Which is, if you hadn’t already guessed, QuESt’s take on Jay Elechanukkah Jay Electronica’s instant classic “Exhibit C”.
QuESt goes in, delivering lyrical promises like

And I ain’t goin’ nowhere
nickname ‘Tattoo’
Stick this game to save my heart
that’s why they call me John Q

over the Just Blaze crafted beat. 
Listen closely, he’s got quotables for days.  
♥

I Wanna Be Where You Are(n’t)

“Y’all can’t fade me; y’all need Ambi”

This is gonna sound hella random—even to my standards and y’all know how I do—but I have a question: am I the only one who’s ever wanted to light a match near someone who smells like they’ve bathed in their cologne/body spray/perfume/etc.? Ya know, just to see if they might catch on fire or spark or somethin’ to that effect?
Oh…you haven’t? I guess it’s just another one of those “No LauRen/Elle/Ren, it’s just you, sweetie” type things then, huh?
Oh. Well.
The person that was sitting behind me when I went to go see Iron Man 2 yesterday smelled like the inside of a knock-off perfume factory was lucky that I didn’t have my lighter on me. Would’ve left her as a mound of imitation Chanel no. 5 scented ashes. Fxckin’ wit’ my olfactory senses for two hours, bish…
I’m jokin’; sheesh. Lighten up.
But I digress.
Ya girl is currently chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all bored like on the couch, watching an episode of Criminal Minds and vibin’ to QuESt’s “Where’s My Rhymebook?” mixtape, takin’ a break from doing something mildly pathetic. Which I’m not going into at the moment, but, if you care—and I strongly doubt you do—the details will emerge over the course of the next six months so…yep.
I'm gonna keep this one short because I have other writing to do so, let’s get it.
♥
I hate…
BET
I’m sure that Robert L. Johnson’s intentions were good to better than great when he founded Black Entertainment Television. Positive of that in fact. However, his dream has turned into a nightmare for the Black community. The stereotypes that are portrayed on the network are shameful at best and among the most degrading insults that we as a culture have to deal with. This network and its parent company Antichrist and Illumanati, LLC Viacom delight in showing our people in both a stereotypical and negative light and honestly? The fact that there are people who delight in the coonish—oh yes, I did say coonish—antics and gimmicks that have become synonymous with all things BET irritates and, on a deeper level, saddens me.

See, I told you it would be short.
♥

The Merry, Merry Month of May

 

It would be just like the “great” *side-eye* State of Michigan to go and get an old adage flipped, twisted and confused:
April showers bring May flowers.
Gotdangit.
This isn’t even your average, run of the mill type rain either. No ma’am, no girl. This is that make it look like 7 PM in the middle of the Fall at 10:30 AM on a Spring day rain. This is the kind of rain that will laugh at you and your little punk ass umbrella before destroying it then moving on to its next victim. This is that rain that you hope and pray doesn’t fall from the sky after you spent the money that was supposed to go toward your rent on a new hairdo type rain. The kind of rain that will team up with the leaky faucet in your place of residence to create a drip-drip-drop-drip-drop-drip cadence designed to make you go insane.This is the kind of rain that ruins all things nursery rhyme and old-timey song.
Think about it.
If it continues to rain like this? There will be no way to stroll through the park one day in the merry, merry month of May so you can forget being taken by surprise by a pair of eyes, roguish or otherwise. You’ll be too busy tryin’ to make sure that your umbrella doesn’t fall the eff apart, which sucks for you Billy Boy, Billy Boy. How will you find out if this young thing, who happens to be  3 x 6, 4 x 7,  28 +11 *side eye from the pits of a geriatric hell cuz this bish ain’t young at all* , knows what to do on a Bicycle meant for two?
Exactly. You won’t.
♥

I Got 99 Problems but This Bish Ain’t One

The Tiffanee Thomas Affair

Seems like I’m always and forever gettin’ myself involved in one fxcked up situation or another, doesn’t it? I need to work on that because really? This is not a good look for my life. While I love most things fxckery related, continuing to experience them first hand is going to be the end of my (infamous) life. While you may not care, I know that somewhere out there beneath the pale moonlight someone would miss me, so I’m gonna try to keep interactions like the one I’m about to write about to a minimum. For their sake.
Anyway.
I’m still a little on the dazed and confused side as to how we even got into this situation, but a few days after I posted my last entry, I received a Direct Message on Twitter from some bish going by the screen-name @iWant_iGet. Which was odd. I’d never even received a RT or mention from this chick and there she was in my inbox. Initially, I wasn’t going to read her message and just brush it off as spam, but I peeped it anyway.
 
I knew that she was from the same area G’s from and had seen them talk to each other online before so I just assumed that they knew each other in real life so, I responded.




I thought that was gonna be the end of the conversation until she hit me wit’ this bullshxt.

Why does everyone always assume that I’m tryin’ to take this nigga away from his girlfriend?! Sheesh. May-May I told you I’m not gonna stop callin’ you that mister and I are strictly platonic friends. He loves his girl and while I’m not exactly sure what to call him right now, I love Q. He knows and respects that and has never tried to come at me on that level. Ever.



Girl…bye.

We continued to DM each other about the situation until she finally told me to txt him the next day before logging off for the night. The next day, I txt him for the first time since the incident occurred last Saturday telling him that a ‘friend’ of his said I should hit him up and the first thing he told me was, “Ms. Carter, you’re gonna get me in soooooo much trouble.”
Which I, of course, found to be mildly hilarious, but y’all know Ren. I’m a sick puppy like that. 
He asked me which friend of his it was that told me I should hit him up. When I responded that it was neither of the people he had mentioned but instead one Ms. Tiffanee Thomas, he told me that he didn’t trust her and asked me to get on Skype.
Me: I deleted you from my contacts.
G.: You’re not even giving me a chance to explain the whole thing. When did you talk to Tiffanee?
Me: she hit me up late last night/early this morning
G.: Why? I don’t trust her, I didn’t say one thing to her about you. I secretly think it’s Jessica honestly
Me: that’s not what she told me and *shrugs*
G.: She’s dead ass lying, I never DM’d her, I barely even talked to her
Me: doesn’t bother me none
Fact: I was lying like shxt. By this point I knew we had been bamboozled and it pissed me off.
G eventually convinced me to hop on Skype and, long story short since I wanna throw up these screenshots and be done wit’ this bullshxt once and for all, were convinced that this Tiffanee Thomas trick was his girlfriend. We were, apparently although the jury is still out on that for me wrong about that and TT turns out to be someone his girl knows. Go ahead and throw your best side-eye, I’ve been doin’ the same thing. At about 9 o’clock that same night, Ms. Tiffanee Muddafxckin’ Thomas logged back on to Twitter and, well…

Peep what she said to @jmillz1984.
“I’m breaking niggas up lol….and I’m loving it”
Bish is crazy, point blank period.
Now, it’s not bad enough that she decided to go after G for whatever sick, twisted reason that she had, but then she said this
 
which effectively launched her sideways and ergo reckless at me, so, I had to respond.
 
Usually when I start throwing outdated insults like “guttersnipe” around, people get the point and back the eff back. However, this bxtch must’ve had an extremely high dose of “Fuck it” in her system because she kept tryin’ to go hard at me by calling me fat, ugly, a dike, etc. etc.
*stifles a yawn*
I’ve heard worse from better so I wasn’t concerned with what else she had to say as I continued my rant.

You know she went and continued her eThuggery, right? I wasn’t in the mood to continue on with the shenanigans so as I felt myself winding down, I said

Then
 
Which should have been the end of that, but long after I blocked her, she kept tryin’ to go hard, to which I said
 
I still think that somethin’ in the milk ain’t clean about this situation and I have a feeling that it’s far from over smh.
♥