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.

(Day)dreamin' and I'm Thinkin' of...

After spending hours writing, rewriting and trying in vain to perfect a piece, I found myself sprawled leaden eyed in the middle of my living room. Opting to conclude my exercise in futility for the night, I closed the notebooks I had fanned out in front of me, sat up and stretched. I glanced at the clock and groaned. It was a quarter to four and I had to be up and ready to make my weekly trip to Grand Rapids by half past six.

I knew that I would be tempting fate if I fell asleep in my bed. Instead, I stacked my notebooks into a crude facsimilie of a pillow and wrapped a blanket around myself. I silently prayed that I wouldn't wake up with another spiral shaped indentation in my face and, laying my head on the journals, closed my eyes. Within moments I was asleep and soon after I was whisked into my past.

The dream opened on a summer night forty or so miles outside of Chicago. From my place on the back porch steps I had a front row seat to the argument my fifteen year old self was having with my friend Julian. Chuckling as my younger self threatened to kick him in the ankle for being a jerk, I took a glance around the backyard.

"Y'know," a familiar voice behind me began, "you were always a bit...violent. I can't think of one time when you didn't threaten to punch, slap or kick me for something I did."

I paused as the warm tenor washed over me. "Violent? Psh. I don't know what you're talking about. If anything, you were fond of doing punchable, slappable and kickable shit and, loser," I replied without taking my eyes off of the frisbee that had nearly decapitated me earlier that day and turning around.

The owner of the voice laughed and took a seat next to me on the steps.

"Hey, Ren."

"Julian."

We sat in silence for a moment and watched as the memory continued to unfold. Fifteen year old Ren was making a show out of taking off her glasses and cracking her knuckles when Jay spoke up.

"You don't seem all that surprised to see me."

"Surprised? No. Not at all. Annoyed? Maybe a little bit."

"Ah, shuddup."

"Make me, buttface." I paused before asking, "What's this about anyway?"

"This?" he asked and gestured. "This is the night we were watching An American Tail and--"

I rolled my eyes and turned to face him. "No, dumbass. I clearly remember what night this is. What I'm asking is what're you doing in my dream and why?"

"Oh, " he said, suddenly sheepish. "Don't get smart; shuddup."

"Stop being dumb and I'll think about it," I challenged.

Muttering something that sounded rude even to my considerably fucked up standards under his breath, Jay simply shrugged and said, "We need to talk."

I arched a brow. "About what exactly?"

"A few things."

"Way to be specific."

"Way to be sarcastic."

I shrugged and leaned back. "You should know how I do by now."

"Yeah, 'cause that's a valid excuse for you to act like a dick."

I laughed and threatened to punch him in his if he didn't shut his mouth. Shooting a glance at him out of the corner of my eye I asked, "So what are you exactly? And what is this really?"

"Why, whatever do you mean?"

I sighed. "Oh, don't play coy with me, jackass. You know exactly what I mean."

"I do," he agreed with a nod. "Break it down for me anyway."

I rolled my eyes and thought about it.

"Well, " I mused. "I don't believe in ghosts--"

"And you shouldn't because that would be dumb," he cut in.

"Look, are you gonna let me work this out or not? Sheesh. Like I was saying: I don't believe in ghosts so that's out even though you've been gone for years now. Um, what else? The chances of you getting into Heaven were slim to 'ahahaha--no', and...'ey. Don't look at me like that. I'm not even sure you can be punched but I'm willing to find out."

"You're taking too long to guess the obvious, kid."

"The obvious? Well, my last thought is that you couldn't possibly be an angel because, I mean really. You could, however, be a demon, so..." I trailed off.

"Real cute, Ren."

"Thank you."

He shook his head. "You're not thinking hard enough."

"Well excuse the eff outta me, Julian Dominique, but I could've sworn you just said that I was 'taking too long to guess the obvious'. Now you want me to think hard, too? Make up your mind!"

"Oh. So you're gonna make me say it then?"

"That I am."

I snorted as he narrowed his eyes at me. "You're such an asshole."

"I'm aware," I replied with a shrug.

He laughed. "Alright, lemme put it like this. You can think of me as the rather attractive if I do say so myself--"

"Because I certainly won't be saying it."

"Like I was saying," he continued, shooting me a look. "Consider me the physical embodiment, um...such as it is, of your unconscious mind."

My past self screamed with laughter as I sat on the steps facing Julian.

"Hol' up, wayment; what?" I stuttered. "Okay, so, you're supposed to be my subcon--"

"No," he shook his head. "Your unconscious mind. The term 'subconscious' is some new-agey, clearance rack self help book-y bullshit, kid."

"Okay, whateva. One question though."

"What's that?" he asked.

"What kind of Lifetime: Television for Women shit is this?"

He threw his head back and laughed as I continued to not so silently fume.

"I'm serious, Julian. I feel like I'm in 'Sweet Dreams: a Hijacking Story' right now. And that still doesn't explain why you're in my freakin' dream!"

"Doesn't it though?" He chuckled.

"Uh...no, loser. We just went over this."

"What'd I tell you earlier," he asked. "I said, 'we need to talk'."

"And we're talking."

He shook his head in frustration. "My God, kid. For someone so smart," he noticed I was about to interrupt and stopped me before I could. "I'm not here to stroke your ego so I'm not repeating that; shuddup. Anyway," he took a breath, "you're slow."

"I resent that."

Acting as though he hadn't heard me properly, he told me that he agreed that I represented that. My eyes narrowed into slits and my hands automatically balled into fists. I'm still not sure of what the consequences of punching my personal unconscious in the throat would be but at that moment I was willing to find out.

He looked at my clenched fists and sheepishly asked, " I just did something punchable, didn't I?"

A nod. "Kickable, too," I replied while flexing my foot.

"Okay, okay," he laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender. "Seriously though. Put it all together. Me, your unconscious mind, me...c'mon."

I rolled my eyes for what must've been the nth time and thought it out.

Julian, my best friend since the playground days and my unconscious mind had teamed up to hijack my dream....My unconscious mind and Jay, one of the people I miss most in the world...oh, what the hell.

"Exactly," he smiled as I sighed and cursed under my breath.

(Belated)

So my birthday was in August, right?
Yeah. The big, “Oh, shit! I’m inching closer and closer to twenty five…which is almost thirty. How the hell did that happen? What have I done with my life? What is that annoying ass ticking sound I keep hea—is that my fucking biological clock? Laaaaaawwwdddddd; I ‘on wanna be old!” twenty two.
Once the initial shock of realizing that I’m growing older at what must be a non-linear—not to mention exceedingly annoying—rate, I decided I wanted to do something special to celebrate. But I didn’t know what to do.
I was thinking about doing something “deep” and “meaningful” to show how much I’ve “matured” with age. Y’know, because I’m known for being “shallow”, “nonsensical” and “immature”?
Yeah, no. I tossed that idea out really quick.
After that, I thought about doing a letter to my future self from my then present self so that when Future Ren read it, she’d (I’d?) be reading Past Ren’s thoughts. The meaningfully deep levels present had the potential to reach an annoyingly pretentious high, so before I could make my future self hate m then current, now past self, I decided to scrap the idea and push it along like ATCQ.
After a host of other terrible ideas, some of which are too terrible to even mention, I finally decided to shoot a birthday video…which I never actually finished. Or really even began for that matter. I quickly discovered that I have this weird verbal diarrhea meets ADHD thing goin’ on which is no good. Besides that, have you seen my skin? Horrible. I look like the “before” portion of a Proactiv ad, smh.
I ended up not doing anything. Which sucks. I didn’t post anything on my much more important and much less scarring (unless you happened to be my liver that night) twenty-first birthday and I completely ignored my second Bloggiversary back in February.
…But that wasn’t the point of this.
My birthday was suppose to be my relaunch date.
This, The (Infamous) Life, was something I started for me. Hell, it's still is for me. But lately, I've slipped and slacked off in the worst way. And I know that I've said this in the past, but that won't be happening again. I mean it this time.
So, with all of that said?
I’m officially back on my shit.

…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.}

Guess Who’s Bizzack?

If I wasn’t convinced that a wild Stan would appear on some Pokemon Diamond shit, I’d channel Pay-Pal’s supposed number one seller <Kanye voice>of all time!</Kanye voice> and hip-hop’s poster child for fellatio, lace front wigs, self hate botched plastic surgery and colored contacts by saying “I’ve been gone for a minute but I’m back wit’ the jumpoff”, but…y’know. I don’t have the time, energy or the very patience necessary to battle someone who plans on extolling the virtues of Ms. Kimberly Jones because she can make a Sprite can disappear in her mouth and because Hardcore use to be the shit back when I was in first grade[1], and I really can’t be bothered to be inadvertently dragged into that whole Nicki v. Kim thing right now. Beside all that, I’m fresh out of Master Balls. Not that I’d want to capture a wild Stan or anything, but eff it. I think someone out there knows what I’m trying to say. Maybe.
Anyway doe.
Shady bullshit in the introductory paragraph aside, it has been a minute since I’ve posted anything on here or my alternate blog of choice. Not that I’m about to apologize or anything like that. I’m sure that nobody, myself included, cares much or at all, so I’d just be wasting my breath and my keystrokes, but I’ve been busy-ish goin’ through some stuff lately. Nothing bad or even particularly good, just a lot of annoying and necessary, supposedly grown up, things.
During the first four months of the year, I lost a lot and, in exchange, I gained a lot of knowledge and insight. I learned a lot about people, things and situations and I’ve had to make a few not so minor adjustments to this (infamous) thing I call my life. I cut out a lot of shit and quite a few folks and now? Now I’m focusing on who and what matters most to me while chunkin’ the deuce to everything and everyone who never did.
…Ugh. That paragraph sounds like some of the empowering drivel designed to keep women single, lonely and bitter as hell for the rest of their lives, smh. Forgive me; it’s not even like that. I’d elaborate but…
I don’t wanna.
*shrugs*
lol.
Here’s to days filled with more consistent infamy.

♥

1 1996 was a long time ago…dammit, now I feel old.

How (NOT!) to Sell Dreams to an Insomniac

Please, don’t play yourself like this sirs and/or madams. Just don’t.
I’m too lazy to cut, copy and paste this in the correct order, so read from the bottom up. You know the drill.


I’m going to be uncharacteristically nice and withhold my commentary on this “Block” fool, his annoying use of the Caps Lock key and that whole “Winkin’ at you” thing, throw up my first Track of the Day for 2011 and be out.
So…you know I had to pick
"Po Pimp"
by Do or Die featuring Twista, right?

lol

♥

Midol Wishes and NyQuil Dreams

My name is LauRen and I am an insomniac.^[1]
Wait, let me rephrase that: My name is LauRen and I’m a sleep deprived, caffeine fueled zombie on days that end in “y”.
I crave sleep—lust after over? Discuss it even. I fantasize about sleep the same way the lonely and sexually repressed fantasize about pussy and peen on the tragically pathetic “#TwitterAfterDark”. I think I lose sleep to daydream about it.
Yeah, it’s that deep.
All that being said, I’m lucky if I get more than three hours of it at any given time. In fact, the only times that I get the doctor recommended seven to eight hours of shut eye are those nights when I’m more or less heavily medicated, and oh, what blissfully amazing sleep it is.
Last week while my uterus was double dutching with my fallopian tubes, I came down with a cold-flu type bug from one of my students that had me coughing up my mucus filled lungs and generally fucked up. I tried to work through it, but when my temperature spiked at 102.3, I said “this shit is for the birds,” reached for my Midol and two NyQuil liqui-gels and called it a night. Within twenty minutes  of downing my improvised drug cocktail, I was knocked the eff out.
Now, I don’t know what’s in Midol Complete or NyQuil and no, I don’t care as long as they both continue to make my cramps and fever disappear, but I think that somehow the drugs merged, teaming up for mild pain relief and to hijack my resulting drug induced dream.
‘Ey, gon’ head and laugh if you want to; it’s the only semi-logical explanation I have as to why My Voldermort^[2] was harassing me during my well deserved slumber.
The dream opened with MV and I cuddling ^[3] in my spare bedroom. He had been making fun of me my collection of Care Bears and Beanie Babies when I threatened to punch him in the neck if he didn’t ess-tea-eff-you.
“Really, Ren,” he said plucking Proud Heart Cat from the bookcase that doubles as my headboard. “You’re how old? Do I need to see ID?”
”It was a gift; shuddup. Keep talkin’ that nonsense and the only thing you’ll see is my fist in yo’ face when I punch you in it. Nicca.”
Brushing off my very real threat of violence, MV laughed, said something about my “violent ass” and tossed PHC in the air, making my poor Care Bear Cousin somersault in midair. I still haven’t quite figure it out, but I somehow managed to snatch the stuffed animal out of the air, throw it across the room and deliver a right cross to his left cheek while planting a kiss on the opposite.
“You’re pretty much an assface, just thought I’d let you know.”
“And you’re an asshole. I still [redacted]^[4] you though.”
"Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” I replied as I stretched and got out of bed. “I’ll be back,” I said over my shoulder as I walked out of my room…
And into Nana’s bathroom. Yeah. I know.
This is where things get hazy and since it’s almost time for my Skype tutoring session, I’ll have to cut this short, but what followed was a veritable odyssey of random weirdness. There was a cyber versus steampunk showdown that had no clear winner; a killer sale on Zoya nail polish; a series of unfortunate but hilariously effed up events had Tia show up out of nowhere, get hit by parked car and an ambulance and I do believe there was a bake sale, too.
Random, right?
♥

^{1 If this were a meeting of Insomniacs Anonymous, this would be the part where a group of sleep deprived people stifle a yawn and say “Hi, LauRen,” then we would all discuss our misadventures in Insomnia and finish the meeting with stale coffee and even staler Krispy Kreme donuts. I think. Pretty sure I’m right.
2 It’s been well over a week since this happened and I’m still mad that He Who Shall Be Punched in the Face had the audacity to pop his half nekkid ass nekkid ass up in my dream.
Up until last week, I hadn’t heard from My Voldermort since NYE when he sent me a “Happy New Year, love” txt. The three txts that I sent in the weeks following? Yeah, those were all ignored. He must’ve been feeling guilty about his complete and utter lack of communication because he thought I was saying “Fuck Q” instead of “Fuh Q” when I posted a link in my status on YIM. He popped out of nowhere and hit me wit’ some damn, “Fuck me? Wow” and went ghost before I could correct his rather egregious error.
…And he wonders why I doubt that he’ll be coming out here to visit next month. Ugh =/}

^{3 I’m going to assume this all occurred precoital because there was no cigarette smoke in the air or an ashtray in sight. Take that as you will.
4 We all know what the removed word is, I just felt like being difficult.}

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.
♥

“Now if you love her…then tell me what kind of love this is?”

“Temptation’s pimpin’ us both so, who’s the weaker one?”

Ah yes, the age old, tiresome and rather annoying debate: why do men cheat?
I have my own thoughts on the subject and I could sit here at my laptop for hours on end, typing up a double spaced, 12 point Times New Roman font, thousand plus word essay that would either have you thinking I’m bitter, wise beyond my almost 21 years and/or crazy, but guess what? I don’t have the time for all that so we’re not gonna go there. Not now. Maybe one day though.
Maybe.
Peep the screen shots below.

 

 
notice how I try to be semi-nice and I get told to hush in the end. Ugh. Niggas.

 

 
We’re a mess lol.
Now, from my unfortunately considerable experience, men and women, I can’t leave y’all out even though I’ve never dealt with y’all on a romantic level and have no intention of doing so will cheat for any matter of reasons, but I’ve drawn my own come to the conclusion that most do it because, like it or not and I honestly don’t have the patience to care if you like it, they can. There doesn’t have to be a deep psychological reason behind it, although that’s not to say that there won’t be one, but that’s it. People cheat because they can.

Doesn’t matter if you’re in a committed, loving relationship with someone or not, if you make up in your mind that you want to cheat? Then you’ll cheat. 
Simple as that.
See what I said about people thinkin’ that I’m “bitter”? *sigh* Whateva.
♥

Eff You Sea Kay Why Oh You Friday

“And a fanga in the middle’s what I leave ‘em wit’…”

You ever notice that when you’re not in the mood for, oh, let’s say…nonsense, drama and bullshxt, some inevitably finds you? And it doesn’t just find you, naw, hell naw. N. D. and BS will stalk you through yo’ respective hood, pay niggas to inform them of your every move and good mood, then one day, when you least expect it, they’ll roll up real slow like, right?
You’re standin’ outside on your porch, goin’ through your mail before turning to walk back inside when these muhfxckas roll up fast on two ten speeds BS is riding on D’s handlebars, grab you by the hair then figuratively fxck you up the ass. Raw. And with no lube.
Oh…so I’m the only one who’s ever been figuratively gang-raped in this bxtch then, huh?
*side eye*
Every last one of my weekend plans just fell through, this random and completely unwanted bout of sadness just came over me and I’ve got two separate assholes on my mind for very different, yet ironically the same reasons, so here’s what I have to say:
Fuck it.
That’s it. Nothing more; nothing less, just fuck it all.
If you’ll excuse me, I have to try to go and salvage my weekend. So uh…yeah.
♥

I Wanna Thank My…

“Shout out to the sound-booth!”

So I’m sittin’ here in service, listenin’ to the recent graduates thank God, their momma, their hood waddup, Detroit? Southside! and their first grade teacher’s next door neighbors’ dog Spot and everyone in between, right? Yeah…the word bored doesn’t come close to describing how I feel at this current moment in time. I’m so thoroughly uninterested in the goings on that I’m counting wigs and weaves in the congregation.
So far I’ve got six phony-ponies, four wigs and seven weaves, one of which has tracks peaking out and throwin’ up gang signs like “Eff yo’ set, Sewn In’s run this thang, nicca!”
Jesus be a hot comb and better quality weave. Skip the synthetic, go human, hun.
Aight, let me leave Sister Sew-n-Sew alone. I heard it was supposed to storm later on and I don’t need to do anything else to tempt God to toss a lightning bolt my way.
♥