“It’s hard out here for a pimp” is the phrase I’ll use to start this post. I found myself thinking about it a while back. It’s the title of a song that the Academy saw fit to give the Oscar for Best Original Song in 2006 despite the concept being older than that moldy bread Methuselah’s grandfather found under his bed as a child. The Academy has been known to make some bad decisions. After all, they were the brilliant bunch that decided to give the award for Best Picture in 1994 to Forrest Gump instead of Pulp Fiction or at least The Shawshank Redemption. Don’t get me wrong – I have nothing against Forrest Gump, I just think it lacked a certain edge that is characterized by a Morgan Freeman narration or Samuel Jackson quoting Bible verses and shooting people. No amount of on-screen junk food could make up for that.
“It’s hard out here for a pimp” is where I was. I’m not literally a pimp, aspiring or established. My parents won’t let me stay out late. It’s figurative. It really isn’t as easy as I thought, this blog thing. Posting every week for the last few months has taken a toll on my uncreative and unprepared self. I was supposed to do a post today about procrastination, but I put it off for too long and now it’s too late to do it. I hope someone somewhere sees the irony in that. I know Tony Stark does. Can I get a “woot-woot”?
I couldn’t miss posting because this is how I justify why I’ve pretty much killed most of my social life (no, we are not going on a road trip because
those things cost money I’m busy working on something to post), so I decided to ask for help with ideas.The first person I went to told me to write the most romantic thing possible and I can definitely say that I will never ask for advice from her again. I won’t even speak to her for the rest of my life. I’m about as romantic as a Snoop Dogg album or a dead lizard. That’s how I once again found myself typing random things in the middle of the night, trying not to get distracted by all the tabs displaying YouTube and a person I’ve been stalking on their site since last week.
Behold, more of the aforementioned random things that have been going through my mind lately.
First things first, this weather is ridiculous. It can be blistering hot one minute, prompting you to go swimming, then it immediately starts raining out of nowhere. The rain comes in so heavy that it floods the pool and carries all of you out to sea. Five seconds ago you were playing Marco Polo with your friends, suddenly you’re being attacked by sharks and Somali pirates. In all fairness, the weather isn’t without its benefits. It has provided the fuel necessary for the awkward banter that you make with someone when you’re stuck together with nothing to talk about. However, this weather also ensures that the atmosphere is always humid (I was told to say it that way) thus my hair constantly looks like a botched attempt at playing Cat’s Cradle. Ask me what my hairstyle is, I couldn’t tell you. It’s part afro, part dreadlocks, part perm, part Chuck Norris’ hairpiece, couple of bald spots and I think there’s a single braid in the middle of my head. I have a pile of broken combs that fought the good fight and tried their best to ensure I don’t look like they electrocuted the son Damien Marley had with a squirrel’s tail. I miss those combs.
Oh, look. A subtle transition into a different topic.
School is getting hectic. There’s so much to do all at once. I have to keep up with pop culture, keep up with celebrities and music and try to convince myself that I did not see Kendrick Lamar twerking in a music video last Friday. I have to watch every episode of Friends, Seinfeld and Arrested Development. I still have to finish writing the last chapters of my Green Arrow/Titanic fan fiction which I have a great feeling about, especially that part where (spoilers ahead) Oliver Queen fires an arrow that splits the iceberg into two and the ship gets across safely, saving me years of having people expect me to make sacrifices for them because “Jack died for true love”.
Aside from all those things I’ve been up to, I still have to find time to raise a duck I abducted from a pond somewhere after watching Looney Tunes for too long. It’s been living in my closet for some weeks now, and raising it is hard. I have to feed it, take it out to swim at night and hide it. It has to stay hidden, because if it’s found, that is an automatic expulsion and a nice animal cruelty charge for keeping it inside my closet, even though I took out the entire door to enable it to breathe better. Stupid law enforcement *plays N.W.A record*.
All these things I’m doing must be getting to me. I have eyebags that make it look like both my eyes are with child (I was told to say it like that), ready to birth smaller versions of me. Someone asked me why I’ve lost weight recently, I said it was due to stress and the economy. That was code for “I lost all my money in a bad investment so now I’m eating bedbugs and rain water to survive, yo!”
“What do you mean ‘people go to school to attend class and study and get degrees and stuff’?” he asked his muse, the object of his infatuation, as he watched her walk out into the storm. The tempest did not petrify her in the least, for she was a typhoon. He did not know for how long she would be gone; few hours, few days, the rest of his miserable life. He fixed his gaze on the drops of rain that danced feebly upon her skin like his empty promises in her cold heart.
That’s what happens when one listens to Drake for too long.
While I’m on the subject of complaining about you people, I have to point out a certain group of people, the ones with rough hands. I’m not talking about rough in the normal sense, I mean rough like someone’s been petting crocodiles all their life and the palms of their hands have become adapted. Hands so rough you go to give a handshake and the hands start giving you cuts and bruises, your wrists get slit, now look at you, you’re dead because you were too formal to do a fist bump. These people must live in a cave with no WiFi because they have clearly not heard of the moisturizing power of Nivea for Men Maximum Hydration 3 in 1 Moisturizer now with Hydra IQ formula for better results.
All this complaining suddenly reminded me of the fact that it’s been over two weeks since 21st October and we still haven’t invented the hover-board despite living in the future. It hurts me to think that if Marty McFly and Doc Brown were to show up from 1985, they would find us having only reached the handle-bar-less, only-slightly-faster-than-walking, might-come-with-lights, Segway-looking thing.
I have to stop now before this becomes a rant about how much we’re wasting money keeping Vampire Diaries on the air instead of financing hover-board research so I can fly.