Scrambling for croutons?

Why do I always do this to myself? I never write, I let life pile up & then when I sit down to pen a piece I'm utterly speechless. I wouldn't call this writers block, I'd call this laziness.

Utter laziness.

& I'm determined to break free.

So what should we talk about? That's why we have music abi? To remind us of those times, no thong bitch still show my ass on ya kinda times. Life has sped up since the turn of the year. 2011 looks like a long lean African man prowling around me in an all white Tom Ford suit.

With the Bape Oxfords.

Clearly this year is all about power, clearly this year is all about sex, it must be, the violence it used to make it's entrance shook me enough to have complete faith in this ideal.

2011 just wants to suck my dick.

Speaking of sucking dick, I've become rather good at it. It's really easy to be good at it, just be dramatic & I'm great at dramatic. But I still loathe it. Kinda. Sorta.

Nah. I'm indifferent. I'm wonderful at it so bitching a nigga out every time has it's perks for the big ol' ego you know.

I mean, I get worshipped.

Who hates that?

Wait, sometimes I despise it when people worship me, especially in person, especially when I'm high, because there's not much you can say without sounding conceited & it always takes me by surprise. Do you know how many people I run into with the words “I love your blog”. It completely shatters the ice for me, then I can't even introduce myself, or say my name.

I never realized how much I liked introducing myself to people until the option was taken away from me.

When I'm famous? I'm going to go to remote countries & lie about my identity to meditate in the fore-....wait...no I won't. I'll just buy all that land.

Yeah, just buy the land bruh & shoot any photographers trying to get shots that come onto your property, it'll be in Cambodia or Botswana so you can shoot those niggas easy.

Easy.

Men are funny. I don't understand why the most egotistical of bastards always project imaginary stories onto me, last year? This perfectly fuckable respectable boy created an entire Fabio covered tale of how I seduced when the lights went out.

I would've fucked him...eventually, but that killed it. What was the point? Why lie? Why talk at all? If you have to lie? Lie to yourself. To yourself, in the mirror each morning, no one else needs to know what you're thinking, this can be a completely personal affair.

We were supposed to be a completely personal affair.

But you fucking talked.

I didn't realize the fuck up, there was a huge gaping hole in the equation & while it bugged me my attention left it, life moves on? But the answer appeared right as I closed the door finally.

Your stories are mirrors of your intentions.

Nanny told me that.

Love that woman die.

My mother is an Osofo (Ordained Minister) by the way, if calls me & freaks out about me sharing this with you then I know she's been stalking me on the internet.

That's when the big guns will come out.

But I hope she hasn't. Because I told her I wasn't going to censor myself. If there's one thing I've learned after all these years?

There's no point in lying.

Truth is so much easier.

Being yourself? Speaking your mind? Easy.

& it's easy for a reason.

Because it's natural.

All natural.

Nothing but...natural.

Natural is truth.

Truth comes naturally...to me.

Get your shit cleaned.

& come sit with me.