So You Gonna Come Out & Play?

Sleek…oh Sleek…please come out to play...
I slip into the room. No stealth, all swagger, all “did you really think you could Eff wit’ me?”
Fresh chucks on my feet, fresh shirt on my back, the heart of a champion beating in my chest.
Youre not hiding under the table are you?
I kneel, flip up the table cloth and there he is. Curled into a little ball, sobbing. I reach out to give him a little nudge but stop before I can, my fingers an inch from his shoulder.
What am I doing? I ask myself. What did he ever do to me?
Slowly, almost without my knowledge, I feel my fingers scrunch themselves into a fist. He questioned my thugoraty, that’s what.
With what took some considerable effort, I unclenched my fist. If I hadn’t I probably would have slugged him on the back of the head. Instead, I did what I had initially intended and gave him a lil shove.
After what seemed forever, he turned his tear streaked to face me. His eyes were red and his nose was a mess. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
So you gonna come out and play?
He swallowed. Cleared his throat. Swallowed again. Wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. Made an attempt at his eyes but gave up. Too much mucus already on his shirt
Here, I said and handed him a hankie
With an appreciative nod he took it. Finished his eyes and made one more pass at his nose.
He held out the hankie to give it back to me but I told him he could keep it. it might come in handy.
So, I said trying again, are you gonna come out and play?
He cleared his throat again, made a strange clucking sound with his tongue and said…well, what did you say Sleek?

I Left My Eyeliner at Home: A Side Project

not much to say really. juss that I've started another blog, a sort of collaboration with my cousin Jay. we've decided to call ourselves "The Scratched Records". actually, he came up with it and i juss went along with it. I think it has a certain Zing! to it though. wouldn't you agree? and even if you don't, please do me a favor and at least pretend that you do. Reason? I thought it might be fun. plus it's be a great opportunity to...um...yeah. anyways, needless to say that since it is a SIDE project, i will still be posting here...my posts on "i Left My Eyeliner at home" will juss be of a different tone...please check it out.


http://jayversusla.wordpress.com

Another Two headed Moron: Twenty-Two Sleek's Slash What These Nigga's Need to Know Is...

This One's for Sleek (dot, dot, dot) yeah, you heard me (full stop) The sole purpose of this here post is to prove to Sleek that I, Bujulaati Rhymes, the fasted bra popper this side of the Sahara has not gone soft. Or put more aptly, has not “Gone Sleek”. And yes, haters (that means you Sleek) this is the part where you can start hating. (paragraph) Don t be fooled, I'm as hood as ever Sleek. SO hood in fact that you better start resting with one eye up. Why? Cos' Sleek, us hustler's don't sleep, Nigga. And yeah, I know what Lil' Sleek must be thinking, that “This nigga right here has no idea who he's messin' with. This is Lil' Sleek we're talking about.” and that, “Who does this nigga think he's foolin'? Nigga's lost his swag, and once you've lost that, there aint no getting it back.”

Well Ive got news for you Sleek, this post right here is a lil' something I like to call “The Return”. And Sleek, my nigg, this is gonna be one hell of a come back. And not the “Kingdom Come” or “Before I Self Destruct” kind of comeback either but the monster smash, multi-platinum, my name is friggin' James Cameron type of come back.

And it all begins with this here post. And Sleek, before you start looking for a loophole, don't be fooled. The boom may not come with this post or the one here after but just know Sleek, that it will come.(paragraph) half way through my Twenty-Two Sleek's Campaign (okay, now its half way through +1) and the name Sleek, (Okay there goes one more) is starting to wear off its welcome on this one golden boy's tongue. But seeing as I still have 9 Sleeks to go (okay, now they're 8) I might as well get it over with. But FIRST (dot, dot, dot)

Bujulaati Rhymes Presents: Kill Or be Killed. A Tuesday Massacre

Time: Shortly Before Two A.M.

The Place: The Victorian; a small out of the way bar on the west side of town; the best side of town to get killed in.

There are few revelers. The rain has kept most of them at bay, locked up in their small story book houses, seated in front of their small story book fireplaces, sipping on small mugs of story book hot chocolate. It is only the brave...and the intensely desperate who have ventured from their homes, into the rain and into the night to Sleek out, oh I'm sorry, I meant to say SEEK out, the camaraderie of fellow man, especially fellow slightly drunk man and the warmth of The Drink. And for some, not many but some...the promise of blood. Our hero; let's call him B. Rhymes, is seated alone in a singular dim corner of the bar sipping on the house's tapped special, his custom .45 deftly tucked into his jeans snug in the small of his back, waiting for the appointed time. 

After a leisurely sip, B. Rhymes pulls out his uniquely crested golden pocket watch, only but one of his various curiosities and checks the time. 

His breath is slow in coming. Another sip. This one a whole lot less leisurely than the one before; there is now very little left of it.

He finishes the beer. Sets down the mug. Inhale, exhale, a rub of the chin...

Ding! The bell above the entrance goes as the door is pushed open and four pairs of black Tims and black hoodies saunter into the bar. It's Lil Sleek. The nigga who thought he ran that part of town. The nigga the entire town was afraid of. 

The bar is suddenly silent. Deathly quiet. They all knew what he was there for. He had come for blood. Blood and more blood; gallons of the stuff. 

Everyone knew that you didn't cross Lil Sleek. Because if you did cross him...it would mean a dozen red roses for your family and a head stone that read something like “Brother, Son and Beloved Husband”

Following a silent order from his boss, Sleek's right hand man “Wild” walks up to where B. Rhymes is seated, not cowering but quietly calm...oddly collected, and towering above him, (Wild is at least 6 foot 4) jerks a thumb towards the door. 

“Time to go.” he rumbles.

B. Rhymes reaches for his beer mug for one last sip but then remembering that he's already finished his beer, pulls back his hand, discreetly touches his custom four-five, ready to blow one's hive because one doesn't have to go to church to get to know one's God and stands up.

He can feel the heat of Sleek's gaze as he walks up to the rest of the posse under the irate glare of the giant that is Wild.

Our Hero (approaching the man who is intent on killing him): 

Sleek...

Our Nemesis (Smiling, sadistic and full malice): 

Rhymes...how nice to see you.

Our Hero: 

yeah, havnt seen you since-

Our Nemesis (Cutting him off, his voice high pitched with an odd Arabic inflection to it): 

Silence...! I'll Kill you!

Our Hero (his tone slightly mocking):

well someones been watching too much of Achmed The Dead Terrorist. Remember that part when he started talking about how the Washington Monument looks more like a tribute to Bill Clinton than it does to-

Our Nemesis ( Completely flustered): 

Do you WANT to die infidel?!? do you want to??? Cos' Nigga you is pushing me!

Our Hero: 

I mean I just figured, you're planning on killing me anyway, what difference would it make, huh? I mean, its not like if I act all nice and crap you're juss gonna let me go...is it?

Our Nemesis, staring disbelievingly at this nigga not quite sure what to say next. Instead he snaps his fingers, points at Wild then points at Rhymes. Reacting instantly, Wild grabs Rhymes and pushes him towards the door.

Our Nemesis: 

Enough chit chat Nigga. You better start praying to whatever God you believe in to deliver your black ass. 

(To Wild)

Wild. Outside. Now.

Ever the henchman, Wild does what he is told. Pushing Our Hero out of the front door and into the night. They are promptly followed by the rest of the posse who put up their hoods and pull out their biscuits. (And by biscuits I mean their guns...and don't look at me like that, it's apparently a west side thing)
After issuing the bar's occupants with a stern warning, namely that if anyone said anything, and he WOULD know, there would be hell to pay, Sleek pulled out his own tech and followed his boys onto the street...

This is supposed to be one of those “To Be Continued” things but before I do that; Sleek...and...Sleek. There. Those are Twenty-Two Sleek's. Now, with that out of the way;

To Be Continued....

The Post With Two Names: What do They Know Anyway? Vs The Birth of Bujulaati Rhymes

Today was a good day. They say that if you pay enough attention, you can learn something new about yourself everyday. Well guess what Luigi (FYI I have no idea who Luigi is, its just the first name that came to mind), I was paying attention. And this is what I learned...
but before I come to that, theres this tingling Ive been getting on my left hip every so often, especially when I'm sitted where I am (left side of the sofa next to the arm rest), at around this time(two or there abouts), doing my writing and its starting to make me wonder. Its probably nothing and I'm not at all worried, I assure you. I'm just a little...curious. What on earth could it be?
Any who, what was I saying? Oh yeah; what I learned about myself today. *anticipated clasping of the hands*
but wait...no, I guess that doesn't really count. I knew that already. Hmmmm....no matter. I need but a second and I'll have another one...
*thoughtful tugging of the beard followed by a slight sigh and a brief visit to the lil boys wee wee room*
but then who are “they” anyway? and do “they” really know anything?
“They say that if you pay enough attention, you can learn something new about yourself everyday...” Shah! What a load of gobbledygook! Oh my gosh, I cant believe I just used the word “gobbledygook”. I didn't even know I knew that word...
Now how about that? There you go...my one thing for the day. So maybe “they” know something after all.
And before you say anything, yes I know I'm talking about nothing in particular. But I'm doing it well, aren't I?
I'm not? Okay, so maybe I'm not. what I'm really doing is just trying to skirt a certain issue here. For your sake as well as my own. Believe me, you don't want to hear none of that.
Well, the tingling's gone. And in spite of all my arguing, for some reason beyond my unmeasurable measure of understanding Mckeith, I'm listening to Coldplay. “warning sign”. From “A Rush of Blood to the Head”. But don't start telling me to eat my words just yet Mckeith, its only one friggin song and believe me, then thats it.
Oh yeah, did I mentioned that I was christened with a stage name today? Yeah, when I was at the studio chillin' with 45, Clef and Tuts. I was christened with the gangstalicious name “Bujulaati Rhymes”. No, I'm not going to repeat that. And stop looking at me like that, damned if I know where it came from.
At first, I thought it was kinda corny. But after those niggas hyped it up a lil, I kinda got to liking it. Bujulaati Rhymes. Hmmmm...
and now for the thing that I was avoiding to say...
She's gone.
I spent about an hour with her before I headed for the studio and even then I was still as conflicted as I was yesterday. I wanted her to stay but I wanted her to go. I missed her already even though she was still there but I didn't want to. I wanted to kiss her but kept my lips to myself, my hands to myself, in fact I didn't touch her at all except for a brief hug when I was saying goodbye.
“So I'll see you oba when?” I said as a way of saying goodbye, my lips close to her ear.
“Shah!” she retorted, pulling away, she was smiling. “Soon...”
Much too soon but not soon enough, I reckon.
*Sigh*
I told myself I wouldn't count the days but for lack of what better to do; thus begins day one...

Digression is Like Making Fists With My Toes; A F**king Life Saver

The words I could not say

The words I should not to say

The words I need to say...

she's leaving on an airplane tomorrow. Although for many of you who will read this, tomorrow is already today.
I have to be honest, secretly, I don't want her to go. I've just gotten her back into my life. But even though, a part of me still wants her to go. To get as far from me as friggin possible. It'll make things easier. It will make things harder. It will open up a portal to worlds better left unexplored. That I would rather not explore. To worlds that I must explore.
“Let her go.” a friend of mine told me today. “See where things lie once she gets back.” not bad advice considering she'll only be gone for a month and some days.
What?!? Only?!? I can hear you say. Yes, only. Five weeks. Well, at least it would have been if she had left when she was supposed to. That being Sunday. But seeing as she's now leaving on Wednesday evening, its now five weeks minus three days. Like I said, a month and some days.
Gosh, listen to me, pining over her like some love sick puppy. Its a little embarrassing. After all this time, after everything that has happened, I still want her back. But then I guess we both know that. Have both known that. Not that its really that stretch of the imagination. Why else would I suddenly want to be a part of her life again. And her in mine? Guesses anyone? Apart from the obvious. Yup, thats what I thought. You cant think of a single thing, can you? That's okay. Its not your fault. Neither can I...

God, these mosquitoes are annoying. Who knew living so close to the lake would be such a friggin nuisance?
I watched Die Hard again last night. It must have been for like the umpteenth time. Remember the opening scene when the passenger sitting next to Bruce Willis on the plane told him that the best way to unwind after a flight was to take off your shoes, take off your socks, place your feet flat on the carpet and proceed to make fists with your toes? Well guess what I'm doing...
while eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, drinking a glass of milk and typing with one hand...and I ask myself why I'm putting on weight. I must be close to ninety now. Dude, I need to lose some weight. These love handles I'm flossing just aint doing it for me. Methodology? Lemme see. Jogging? No. Biking? Nadda. Swimming? Hmmmm. I could try eating less. Gimme two weeks on a crash diet and I'll be back down to seventy-five easy. Then, it would be time to hit the gym and work my way up make to eighty-five. Gosh that sounds like too much work. You know what? How about I just lie and say i'm comfortable with the way I am now?
Nice digression, dont you think? From the topic that shall not be named for fear of reintroduction into this current post. Above not mentioned topic will have many posts dedicated to it in the following weeks, believe me.
Its getting to be that time. Time check: 1:33 am and my lil digression is beginning to wear off. One small thing and i'm thrown off kilter. Damn facebook. Damn it to hell. At least until the first grey streaks of morning and sanity returns. Listen to me biting myself. I really do need to call it a night. So until the first grey streaks of morning and sanity returns...
Holla.

Public Service Announcement

Announcer: This is a public service announcement brought to you, in

part, by Tim Brady.

Our Protagonist (that would be me): (whispered): Tell 'em I don't give a fuck

Announcer: Tim Brady does not give a FUCK...what you think!

Our Protagonist: Tell 'em to suck it

Announcer: If you don't like it, you can suck his fucking cock!

O.P: Tell 'em they kissed my ass

Announcer: Little did you know, upon reading this post, you have just

kissed his ass!

O.P: Tell 'em I'm fed up

Announcer: Tim Brady is fed up with your shit...and he's going to kill you!

O.P: Yeah

Announcer: Uh...anything else?

O.P: Yeah...SUE ME. 

Okay, so Ive so wanted to do that for like the longest time. And dont worry, i'm not gonna kill you. Not unless you get too close during one of my rage black outs. I'm not saying its happened before...its just that you can never be too careful...can you?
Inhale, exhale. Think blog post...
*sigh*
Better...
So it was wednesday when I had one of these

shoved in my face. Ive never been one to turn down a free beer (hello! Its a free beer!) but this new variety of lager kind of made me pause. Leave alone that it was served warm (and yes, because this is Uganda, room temperature often qualifies as warm so please no trying to sugar coat it by saying that its scientifically proven that drinks served at room temp. are actually more healthy for you cuz I aint buying it missy), it just didnt taste right.

Oh yeah, setting. I always seem to forget that. This was at Mateo's. You know, bar slash restaurant slash bathroom quickie center...for those of you who are curious...NO, i'm not going to elaborate. All you need to know that its starting to become a trend and i'm beginning to get a little worried.
Dusk.
Okay so it was more like twilight but I like the way that dusk sounds. It makes it sound all “i'm about to embark on the best campfire story ever” and shit. You know how they go:
(Crackling fire, flashlight in hand held beneath your chin, its beam distorting your face casting the hollows of your cheeks and your eyes in shadow) “Our story begins at dusk. On the eve of the summer solstice...” And Ex-Girlfriend-Who-It-Always-Seems-To-Be-Complicated-One-Way-Or-Another-With (lets call her...New-New because that was the name of Lauren London's character in ATL and I am on such a Lauren London bend right now that it should be illegal) was ushering this lil shin dig that was supposed to be promoting this new beverage that I (Pah-toowee!) personally found insufferable. 

It was my first time seeing her in about two months. Her first time seeing me with my hair short, the added pounds and the whole “nigga I'm grown” shirt and tie get up I was on...minus the tie.
She looked good. More than that, she looked gorgeous. Not that I told her so. Do you think that maybe I should have? Like really? Do you think Our Protagonist may have made a boo-boo? No matter. I'll make up for it. In a VERY big way. You best believe that.
Coincidence that I was there? Nah. She invited me. So what if she was working. It was a chance to see her again. Especially since she was leaving for...uh, for Finland in a few days. (The power is in the details love...yeah, you know i'm talking to you)
and work she did. Only stopping by my table every so often to check on me after my so called “friends” high tailed it, leaving me all alone. Lucky for me she didn't have to work long. After her and her girlfriends had finished eating a free pizza from Mr. I Hope This Will Get Me Somewhere (and no, that wasn't me, Ive got way too much swag for that) it was time to go home. We lived in the same direction now and so naturally we walked down to Cooper Complex together to get our respective taxis.
Long story short, (cuz bruh, I really need to get some sleep) that gnawing in my stomach, the one that kept on telling me that I missed her more than what was probably healthy...kept on gnawing. If anything, it got worse. I had gotten a little nibble, now I wanted to have the whole friggin' sandwich. Yeah, bad metaphor, I know. But you know what? I'm tired. And you know what else? Maybe I should stop writing these so called “Midnight Sessions”. Even though it's closer to early morning. 4:02 am to be exact. What do you think?
Anyway, Ive seen her almost everyday since then. And a day hasn't passed when I haven't at least heard her voice.
I told her I missed her. And that was/is the truth.

I wish I could see into your mind. I wish I could read minds. It would make life a whole lot more simple. But since I cant, I guess I'm just going to have to make do with this. This being my Public Service Announcement.

4:11 am

Chapter One: Without a Spark

I believe in many things. In things like truth and faith and justice. I believe in God. And in his son. And that everything good in this life begins and ends with him.
I also believe in the devil. In selfishness and greed. In devious planning and malicious deeds. In getting whatever you want...by any means necessary.
I believe in many things...but I do not believe in love. Love is a lie. An illusion. A crutch for the weak and readers of poorly written romance novels. and the sooner the world realized this, the better.

***

Victor closed his eyes. 
Shut out the world and maybe something will come to you, he told himself. 
Breathe in. breathe out. Inhale. Exhale. Shake out your fingers, shake out the jitters and try again.
After cracking his knuckles, Victor opened his eyes. Nothing had changed. The three same paragraphs stared up at him from his spiral bound note book. Caroline could never understand why he never used his laptop when he wrote. She was endlessly pointing out to him how wasn't it double the work, that? Writing it by hand then transferring it to the laptop that she had bought for him exclusively for his writing. And it would have made at least some kind of sense if he at least sent off the hand written pages to be typed up by some pale faced, limp haired transcriber but no, Vic, as he was known as by his friends, insisted on typing them up himself. It helped him to edit, he claimed.
“But isn't that your editors job?” Caroline had asked him once.
“Sure it is.” had been Victor's answer, “but what's wrong with trying to make Tracey's job a little easier?”
Caroline had scoffed at that. She never did like Tracey. She was pretty, intelligent, successful and had a whole lot more in common with Victor than Caroline did. Spelled out, she was a little jealous. And despite Victor's constant reassurances, Caroline kept constant tabs on him whenever she knew he was with Tracey “working”.
Three damn paragraphs. That was all Victor had been able to write. And he wasn't even sure if they were even good paragraphs. Two years since his last book and he only had three paragraphs.
Victor let out a sigh. And the worst part was, as any writer knows, you cant force these things. When the spark isn't there, the spark just isn't there.
Then you better find that spark, Victor told himself.
Victor scoffed.
You say that like you don't think Ive been looking.
But two years Vic? Like seriously?
Get off it, he told himself. I'll find it, just give me a little time.
A little time man? Ive given you two friggin' years. And what have you done with it? Written three lousy paragraphs.
Victor let out another sigh. Ran a hand over his recently shaved head. The thin carpet of hair on his head a constant reminder of what he had lost. It had taken him the two years since his last book to grow out his hair. He had made a deal with himself that he would cut it off until he had completed his next one. But then Caroline had pointed out something.
“What if,” she had started as she had played with his hair, “It's your hair thats the problem? Stopping the words from coming. Don't get me wrong, I love your hair baby. I'm just saying, what if?” it sounded ludicrous, of course but at that point, Victor had been desperate. And so off had come the locks. That had been a month ago. And now...still nothing.
Victor was at the end of his tether and at the end of his tether he had done the one thing all writer's know not to do; he had tried to force it. The result? Three lousy paragraphs.
In a sudden fit of emotion Victor grabbed his pen and using it like a knife slashed at his spiral bound note book. Once the page was nothing more than a few shreds of paper he sent the note book spiraling across the room, where it hit the wall and landed in a heap on the floor.
“Honey?”
There is the rustling of sheets, a creak as Caroline sits up in bed.
“Is everything ok?”
“Fine.” Victor says rubbing his head, “Everything is fine.”
More creaks.
“What time is it?”
There is a sudden wash of light as Caroline leans over and turns on the lamp on her side of the bed.
“Late. Turn off the light and go back to sleep.”
After a moment.
“Are you sure you're ok?”
Victor lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Just go back to sleep ok?”
One moment. Two moments. Three moments, four. A sigh.
“Okay. Come back to bed soon. I miss you.”
Caroline stared at the back of Victor's head for a moment then laid back down.
Click. She turned off her lamp, enveloping her side of the room in darkness, leaving only the small radius around Victor's desk illuminated.
Victor waited about five minutes before getting up. Caroline was a fast sleeper. He knew that's all it would take. Making as little noise as possible he went over to where he had thrown the note book and bent over to pick it up. Note book in hand, Victor walked back to his desk. Sat down. Laid the book down in front of him, turning to a fresh page.
Picking up his pen, he breathed in, breathed out and started again.

Dormitan's Nightmare: Prologue

He dreamed of flashing lights. Of story book days and legendary nights. He dreamed of fame, oh of glorious fame. And of power...and of respect.
He dreamed of dinner parties at the finest restaurants, of million dollar deals and toasts with 100 year old wine.
He dreamed of the prestige; of awestruck glances, of hands offered in reverence.
“Welcome, Mr. Dormitan” they would say.
“It's an honor, Mr. Dormitan.” they would say.
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Dormitan.” they would say.
With hands behind his head, insomnia stricken he would dream. Warming his bed, filling his head, he would dream. Never letting up, never letting go long enough to wake up, or for that matter, to fall asleep...

How To Survive a Mud Slide: The Weekend Round Up

And so ends another weekend...not the most exciting Ive had but it had its well...not quite perks, but it had its moments. Drenched hoodie and squishy shoes (I'm sooo dreading having to clean those sons of bitches...I need to get myself a washing machine!), red bull and boxed vodka (or was it whiskey? Not quite sure, not that it matters, it still got the job done in record time), various cameos from Kigowa's Finest (whatever happened to us guys? We used to have that “solidah”, now we're so splintered its like we never were. I guess that's what happens when people grow up, move on and move out), food court chillin after midnight at Oasis while all the other night time lemmings milled about on the ground floor looking like a bunch of brainless ninnies (and yes I did say ninnies, you'll have to forgive me if I sound a little, well, superiotic. Not a real word mind you, juss made it up; root word superior. Thats juss how I am. superiotic that is.) hitting the dance floor at efendy's to “drop it like its hot” (I still haven't gotten the hand of doing the cryp walk yet), people still asking me why I cut off the dreads( get off it already, they're gone, they'll grow back, lets leave it at that), and the lemon mering cream on the pie; fifteen annoying minutes at Iguana with still Banging Body Barbara and I'm Too Cute For You Latta...I mean like seriously? What do you even call that? I had never walked out on a girl before but that was friggin ridiculous. And if you want the full story you'll juss have to inbox me or something because theres no friggin way I'm gonna waste space by telling you about it here.
All in all though, I give it a 7/10. It was a great distraction. I had fun.
But tomorrow's Monday and you all know what that means...back to work. * sigh * three...two...one...and here we go.

Stick a Fork in Me, Because I'm Done (I Really Have No Idea What to Call This)

It always comes back. 


It's always her. 


No matter what happens. No matter what I do. 


Two  weeks, two months, two years; 


it doesn't make a difference...she's there. 


Always beneath the surface,


 waiting...waiting...

One taste is all it takes, toxic is toxic. 


Vials in boxes, boxes in closets. 


Pad lock it, mock it but


 it doesn't make a difference...she's here. Where? 


Here. Always beneath the surface, 


Waiting...waiting...

12:34 am

Its simple really. There's really nothing to it. All you have to do is pick up the phone and call. No, not now you twit. Tomorrow, when its appropriate. Midnight phone calls simply for the sake of saying hi only work with girlfriends and girls who you're trying to fuck and the fact is, right now, you just don't know her like that bruh...
Uh-huh, well, thank you for the input...bruh. And thank you for reminding me. Not that I needed reminding. I'm fully aware of the situation as it stands at the moment thank you very much. I'm just trying to figure just how to go about handling it, thats all. Because although ignoring it has worked for quite some time now, I have the feeling that that luxury is about to come to an end...

Kiss me. 

I don't care if there's no music playing, 

slow dance with me.

I don't care if there are people watching,

let me put my arms around your waist,

let me hold you closer...

P.S.

Ive missed you
, 

Ive missed everything about you,

please don't deny me this chance...

1:52 am

I intend to one page this. Meaning that I only have a few lines to spill this. Not that I have much to spill. Or maybe I have too much too spill. So much so that I find trying to cram it into this limited space one notch below futile thus not worth the effort. In plain English please. In plain English? I ain't gonna say shit so you might as well stop reading now. I'm on that facebook shit, replying wall posts, inboxes, status and note comments and all that other good stuff. I will leave you with one thing though. Even if it is only a reiteration. I miss her. Always have. Staying distracted has been a good way of not having to face that. Not anymore though. And you know what that means, right? Drama-tox is almost over folks. Its been fun but God knows I'll be so much more happy with a lil drama tossed in...so get ready, because here I come!

Hit the Person Sitting Next to You Over the Head With Your Bible Day

Pen to pad, finger tip to key, one eye on the horizon, one to the past and here we go...

But first, it will only take a moment I promise, let us pray (all eyes closed and all heads bowed):

“Lord give me grace and dancing feet

And the power to impress

Lord give me grace and dancing feet

Let me outshine the moon.

Tonight make me unstoppable

And I will charm, I will slice

I will dazzle them with my wit

Tonight make me unstoppable

And I will charm, I will slice

I will dazzle, I will outshine them all.”

Amen. Now, with that out of the way...

Has anyone seen my tattoo? I seemed to have misplaced it. Maybe you've come across it. It's black, about yay high, kind of exotic looking, claims to be “Eternity” in the ink. It was last seen on the right side of my neck. After some girl (name politely withheld) tried to suck it off with her Hoover tunnel mouth. Or at least thats what it seemed like. She just wouldn't let up. I don't know which nigga lied to her but for future reference, ladies, sucking on the neck does not turn us on. We men. We like head. Whether it's in the back of a special hire or in the corner stall of the ladies room at Barbecue Lounge on a Tuesday afternoon after three long island ice teas (those things work wonders by the way). Both the ice teas and the head. Give a nigga good head and he'll be likely to keep you around. Give a nigga great head and his black ass will be likely to ask you to be his Official Girl. These are trade secrets ladies so I hope youre taking notes...
but enough about The Head. Let's talk about something a tad more...what's the word I'm looking for? Oh yes: palatable. I know I had a few people squirming in their seats for a few sentences there. But fear not prudes, shrews and church fairing women over the age of 35, it was but a minor digression. But even though that may be the case, please do keep in mind that these are home truths I speak of. Whether you like it or not.
Now, has anyone seen my tattoo? I seemed to have misplaced it. Maybe you've come across it. It's black, about yay high, kind of exotic looking...wait, Ive already said that haven't I...? Crap. Lemme think, lemme see...right. Here we go. Wait, not yet, I gotta pee. BRB...

*7 minutes later* i.e Not spent in Heaven

Phew. I thought I would never get out of there. And you know what the messed up part is? I don't even feel any better. I still feel like someone is holding my bladder in a vicious choke hold and now on top of that, I feel hungry. Weird combination right? And not just hungry but like “OMG! I feel like I havnt eaten in the past two days” kind of hungry. And if theres one thing you should know about me, it's that I dont, nay I can not, function properly when my stomach ( my best friend third only to God and my...um, *quiet clearing of the throat* Toshiba lap top) has not been taken care of. Probably the reason I dont seem to be making any sense right now. Not even to myself. Not a common occurrence I assure you. Solution? Simple. Remove pen from pad, finger tip from key, eye from horizon, eye from past and get something in my friggin belly. And in the meantime...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qex0OjXolzc

The Truth of the Matter Is...This May Have to Come With A Disclaimer

The truth of the matter is I'm starting to wig out. Lose my nerve. Ronnie was right, I really am back at square one. And even though everyone keeps tellin' me that I'm rockin' the shit out of the new look, for some reason I'm still not convinced.
So Saturday was supposed to be a good day. And don't get me wrong, it was. It really was. A great dinner, lots of booze and fly women coming out of the wood work. What more could a brother ask for? Dreadlocked Lloyd would have been all over that muthafucka like an African fly on a piece of unattended meat. But not this one. Nope not “I just shaved my head, my skin is breaking out for some reason I cant really figure out, I really don't know what to say to these hoes; Lloyd”. No not him. He just sits in his chair and watches all the booty shaking from afar. From a safe distance. He wants to participate, show these niggas that he aint nobody to play around with, but at the same time he's like “fuck it. What do I get from pimpin these hoes anyway? Its not like I'm gonna bust a nut on any of them.”
and while trying to convince myself of this, the taste of beer now more than a little stale on my tongue, (it was like bottle 4 or 5 or 6 or whatever) I see someone who looks just like her. Looks like her, dresses like her, dances like her...it was pretty fucked up. mainly because I had managed to get to the point where I barely thought of her. And now this specter of her turns up, in some skRmpy blue thing (or was it green? I cant really remember...not that it really matters) and with the flick of a hip, like flipping a switch, initiates a program that has decided to call itself “Project: Miss Her”.
And before you say anything, no you don't have to worry, it aint full blown yet. Its like that AIDS shit, it takes some time to mature. All its managed to do so far is get me thinking about contacting her. But that wont be for another few days yet. And thats assuming I even decide to.
Raise your glasses boys because I'm about to make a toast.
“To all those girls who fuck with niggas heads (Alex, come on, raise that glass you know you're right up here with me...in fact it should be you giving this little speech)...FUCK YOU! We aint taking your shit no more. This is a new year and no matter how smackable that booty is, no matter how good your head is (and sweetie don't kid yourself; it aint that good) no matter how good people say we look together, no matter how much those niggas hate, bitches, enough is enough! We got too much on our damn minds already. All that other bullshit you bring along is unnecessary. Now say it with me boys: fuck dem bitches! (I see you Sam, stop fucking laughing cuz this aint no fucking joke and repeat after me) FUCK...DEM...BITCHES!!!!!
* sigh * Ok, now that Ive gotten that out of my system, maybe I can dish out a tirade on something else. 
Juss hold on and gimme a second...
Uh-huh, here we go...artificial insemination....
Ok, you know what? Fuck that. I aint gonna be able to do a tirade on that shit. Let me give this another try...
Pretty faces, pretty faces, pretty faces...i love dem pretty faces. But they can piss me off sometimes. Fuck that. They piss me off a lot. Whats up with girls with pretty faces? Did they all get together one day and decide that “hey, here's an idea, why don't we all be bitches?” and yes I can already hear all you naysayers but before you all open up your pie holes in protest, pause and really think about it. That's right, I can hear the wheels turning...pretty girls are bitches. And yes, I admit, there are exceptions to the rule, there always are. just not that many. Now girls, take a look at the girl on your left...now at the girl on your right...all three of you are bitches. The ones who arent bitches arent in the room...now what does that tell you?
Okay um, maybe I should stop here. I'm only fucking with you anyways. I don't really think pretty girls are bitches...not that many of them anyway. And for any bitches (oops!) I mean, ladies that I might have offended, let me offer you my sincere apologies...seeing as you're the same girls I'm gonna wanna bang come next weekend...it wouldnt be advisable to piss you off...
Am I right?

Yet Another Reason to Hate Valentine's Day (A Flash Back)

I never did tell you her name, did I? And um, I guess I should thank you for never asking. Not that I wouldn't have minded. Its just that she doesn't really like having her business being put all out there. Never has. And I guess that as long as she remained nameless, anonymous, she could convince herself that It wasn't really her business that I was putting all out there. It was mine. My dirty laundry. She was just a shade of lipstick on the collar of my favorite shirt. She could be anyone. And I reckon thats just the way she liked it.
Her name is Samantha. Sam for short. I called her Sammy once but she thought that a tad too much. And so I settled for Sam. Unless of course she's having one of her blond moments, in which case I call her “Samantha who”.
Now, to be quite honest, Ive never been one for valentine's day. Never liked it, probably never will. Least of all because I hate the color red. And so when I say that a romantic valentine's day in Mbale with Samantha was the last thing on my mind, I hope that you will be apt to believe me. I asked her up because...well, I really don't know why I asked her up. Ive never really thought about it. I do know though that I never really expected her to actually agree to come. I had asked her half jokingly and so when she did say that she would come, I took it as some sort of sign I probably shouldn't have. But in my defense, wouldn't you? I mean, you don't go out of your way to go on a trip to somewhere you've never been to be with someone unless you're trying to say something...or, as I later found out, unless you're Samantha.
She arrived on the afternoon of Friday the 13th (please, no jokes) and the first thing that struck me was how good she looked. Up to know I don't know whether it was because I hadn't seen her in some time or if she really was having one of her “super cute days”.
It was nice to see her. But although we tried our best to make nice, there was no denying that my unanswered question, or rather inadequately answered question was still looming over us.
But even though, I committed myself to not bringing it up that day. In my opinion, it was too soon. I wanted us to at least try to enjoy ourselves before I rained down on our parade.





Saturday




The weather was wonderful. Not too hot, just enough sun, the hint of a breeze and the promise of a star lit night. Some might even say that it was perfect. Not me though. I don't believe in perfect. Not anymore. I'm too old to believe in fairy tales.
But that being said, it was a pretty good day. I enjoyed myself. Even if most of the time I was on edge waiting for the perfect opportunity to drop that mother load of a bomb in her lap. A opportunity that never came. I was foolish to even think that it ever would. Theres no such thing as perfect, remember? Just a series of small compromises, even more and even smaller denials and one huge pair of “mother of God, what are you wearing?” rose tinted glasses.
We hung out, caught up, ate ice cream, walked around, looked for pork, couldn't find any so settled  for goats meat and rolexes instead, a brew or two or three, got her a hotel room and wound up on this king sized bed that was just begging to be rolled around in.
with the evening having pretty much only one direction to go, I decided, much to the chagrin of the Lloyd writing this, that “you know what? That's not what I want. Not with this thing eating me up inside, tying my stomach into knots, making my head swim.” And so I decided to open my big fat mouth.
I had one arm around her. Had her in a place I liked to think she thought of as home. I could have kissed her if I wanted to. Turned the night into magic. A dark magic where all else would have been forgotten. At least until the first gray streaks of morning and sanity returned. But instead of doing this simple thing, instead of losing myself in the curve of her neck and the plum of her lips, I licked my own, took curious note of how my chest rose and fell and finally came out with it- Hiroshima!
She didn't say anything for a beat. Maybe two. Didn't do anything either. Then feeling her slowly exhale, I watched as she rolled out of the curve of my arm and onto the expanse of the bed. If she had thought of it as home before, that was now nothing more than a distant dream.
Seemed to take a moment to choose her words carefully. But even though, there was still a weary note in her voice when she said,
“my answer hasn't changed Lloyd. We still cant be together. For the same reasons I gave you before.”
I let that sink in. I let it marinate. And once it had, once the full absurdity of the situation had hit me, I got angry.
“Then why did you even come?” I asked her as calmly as possible. But even though, there was still a slight tremor in my voice.
“Ive never been to Mbale before, I thought it would be an adventure.”
“You thought that it would be an adventure.” I repeated after her.
“You thought that it would be an adventure.” I said again. This time more  to myself.
I laughed. But her and I both knew that there was no humor behind it.
“Let me ask you,” I continued,
“Knowing how I feel about you, it never once crossed your mind that boarding a bus, which you hate in case you've conveniently forgotten, to go somewhere you've never been, on valentine's day weekend, yes I know Ive said that I hate it and I do and God knows you're about to give me a reason to hate it even more, to visit me might appear to some, hell to anyone, to have some sort of special significance?”
Now although I'm not quite sure I said exactly that, I am pretty sure that I did say something to that affect. As for what she replied to that? I have not a clue. Of course, I'm quite allowed to speculate but that, for some reason, wouldn't feel quite right.
One of the disadvantages of letting things marinate for so long; things run quite amok, deciding to play hide and go seek with your memory. I'm not up to playing, however, and so i'm going to do my best to provide a pretty faithful summarization.
Advantage of king sized bed meant for rolling around in #4;
Perfect for putting as much space as you can between you and someone you're not especially fond of at the moment without falling off the friggin' bed, saving them from potential bodily harm.
She slept on one side of the bed and I slept on the other. She got the wall. I loved the wall. I was angry enough to try and take it away from her but some sensible part of me that had miraculously stayed put against all the odds managed to convince the rest of me that it wasn't worth the hassle.
And so it was until the first gray streaks of morning and sanity returned.

What They Refer to in "Rehab Land" as a "Breakthrough"

Ive written the opening sentence for this thing about 15 friggin' times but still haven't been able to come up with something I like. I guess this is going to have to do.
So where do I start? *sigh* oh yeah, I came pretty close to relapsing today. I wanted to, I so wanted to. And not even because I really wanted to (if that makes any sense) it was the challenge of being denied something and setting out to prove that if I really wanted it I could get it. The “it” in this case being 7 minutes in heaven (fall out boy reference anyone?) with girl X who's proving to be quite the slippery fish. Playing with my hair (well, that's gone now) tugging at my hand (cant she cross a friggin street by herself?) saying what a great couple the two of us would make (I can make any couple look good) and how friggin cute she thinks i am (uh...duh). But when it comes down to the business at hand, she don't dish out. do you know how friggin frustrating that is? I would rather she be friggin up front about it. But a tease? Not cool dame...not cool at all.
Not an excuse though. A commitment is a commitment and I'm glad I made it out here right in the open. I got people who can call me up on it (You know who you are and I love you immensely for it). Ive got my head on straight again though. And for future reference, if ever it needs straightening, never hesitate to do the needful (again, you know who you are).
*Sigh* this is really hard. Because even though I no longer miss her, there's still that void that she left behind to deal with. And the fact is, thats what this really all boils down to. Getting over her. I have a Samantha shaped hole in my heart (thats not her real name but Nimo you know who I'm talking about) and Ive been trying to fill it with all these other girls even though I knew from the get go that none of them would be able to replace her. And so I decided that since plan A wouldn't work I would proceed with plan B; burying myself in so many of them that I wouldn't have time to miss her or want her back.
Well, thats obviously not gonna work anymore...if it ever worked at all. I gotta deal with this thing head on instead of simply setting up petty distractions to tide me over...
Hey! Look sponsor, I think this is what they refer to in rehab land as a “break through”. And if it is, well then I guess that means I'm one step closer...
Pass me my chip!

It Aint No 'Ting but a Chicken Wing

Its been awfully hot these days. Lots of sun, absolutely no cloud cover and just enough humidity to make you sniff yourself and say, “Hot damn, I need a shower!” At ten o'clock in the morning. After but two hours since your last one. And for those of you who think that you've gotten away Scott free, this heat seems strangely immune to deodorant. Whether its sure, Burberry or that funny vanilla body spray she who shall not be named used to wear. Or possibly still does. Who even gives a cuss?
Now I think it would be prudent of me at this point to warn you that if you're looking or waiting for some sort of point to this, I'm afraid your not going to find it. Because quite frankly, there isn't one. I just liked the way the title rolled off of my tongue. Something I heard in a movie once. I think. Or maybe it was a TV show. Or maybe I read it somewhere. But thats besides the point. The point is...well the point is that there isn't one. So read on at your own risk.
So...I'm supposed to be drama-toxing. (don't know what that means? Well ask Nimo, she's the one who came up with it after all) and all in all, I think I'm doing a pretty good job at it. Going on two weeks without any drama. Of course, the way I left things with a couple of certain individuals may not be exactly, exemplary but making amends will come a little later on in the program. Because making amends, if not handled properly, would just mean the re-introduction of drama and right now, I'm too chill enjoying these drama free days to give that all up for the sake of “making amends”. And Nimo, darling, if you're reading this, how far up the 12 step ladder is making amends anyway? Wait, don't say anything here, inbox me the answer.
But drama-tox or not, theres this one girl I want to get with. No problem right? Wrong. Theres one complication. White Greek boy friend who she's intensely loyal to. When it comes to jumping into the sack that is. And that's all I want. A roll in the hay. This business of walking around, holding hands whispering sweet nothings into each others ears with no friggin pay off is a fucking joke. They say that persistence pays and I know that in this case it would but Ive been down that road before and eh, it aint all its cracked up to be. Drama was inevitable. Of course the last time I actually liked the girl and sex had been the last thing on my mind and thus the drama but I still don't want to take my chances. You never know what could happen. But that being said, do I really see myself pulling out? Well, maybe just as I'm about to come (no, I wouldn't be that stupid, of course I would wear a rubber) but out of the race before those six seconds of pleasure? Not a chance.
Wait, she's on messenger right now...and oh, how about that? Her phone is now on, she's just sent me her number....let's see what she's doing today. And if I'm lucky, maybe it'll be me...

The Dreaded End/ I Am Not a Lemming {Forgive My Jabbering I Am Not Myself}

I walk into Charlie's. The 12 inches of a hair on my head sticking out in every direction. four sets of eyes follow me as I cross the linoleum floor and land in what is to be my hairs electric chair.
“Dead man walking...dead. Man. walking.” I can almost hear Percy Wetmore, that asshole, shout down the mile. (for those who don't know, thats a “Green Mile” reference. One of the best novel-movie masterpieces of all time)
I take a long look at myself in the wall length mirror. I'm shivering. And its not even cold. Get it together. I tell myself. Get it the fuck together.
After a second, Charlie himself walks up to me. He seems intrigued.
“What can I do you for?” he asks after a standard issue 'our long hair makes us brethren' greeting.
I swallow. Try my best to calm my nerves. It wouldn't make do for my voice to come out all funny. It would let him know that there was still a chance of talking me out of it.
Deep breath. Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth.
“I want to cut off my hair. All of it.”
Charlie's eyes stray to the top of my head yet again. After a moment, they drop to look me square in the face.
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
“Yup. Let's do this.”
Charlie shakes his head.
“well, if you're sure...”
“I am.”
I hope I sound more confident than I feel, I think as I watch Charlie, in the mirror, tie a neck strip around my neck followed by one of those polyester oba nylon apron thingys they cover you with to keep your recently liberated hair from getting all over you.
Picking up the clipper, Charlie asks me how low I want it.
“Level one.” I tell him.
He sort of smiles. To me it looks more like a grimace.
“That's really low, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” I assure him.
“Ok.” he says nodding. “Just as long as you know.”
He turns on the clipper. The Buzz-Buzzing it makes jolting me like 20,000 volts of electricity coursing through my body damning me to the grave..
I close my eyes.
“ten minutes,” I tell myself, “ten minutes and this will all be over.”
Yeah, the cynical part of me adds, with your hair all over the floor...




Deep breath. This is gonna take some getting used to. I keep touching my head to make sure it really happened. That I'm not just dreaming. Or somehow just imagined it.
“Yup, it really did happen.”, the thin carpet of hair left on my head proclaims every single time.
“Now I'm just like everybody else.” A part of me despairs silently, mourning its loss.
“I am not my hair.” I try to convince myself as I stand in front of the mirror. But nobody's listening. Not now. Not tonight. Try again in the morning.
“Now its back to charming them” , I sigh.
Before, the hair did half of the work for me. There's just something about a man with long hair that turns girls on. And girls, dont you dare try to deny it.
My game had upped because of it but to be quite honest, it had also suffered. I got lazy. Smiled, let them touch my hair, said something vaguely funny, told them I wanted to go home with them and then it was on. Now it wont be so simple. Or will it? I guess you'll have to ask me in a few days. The weekend is coming up after all...
There was a point I was trying to make. I'm sure of it. Um, lemme think...lemme see...
Nothing. I cant remember, for the life of me, what I wanted to tell you. Something about not wanting to be a lemming. About not wanting to be part of the everybody in “everybody else”. And as corny as it may seem, my hair helped me do that. Or at the very least I managed to fool myself into thinking that it did. I would walk down the street and eyes would follow me. Do you know how many stares I got today? Like really? A grand total of ZERO. Zilch. Not...a...one. and its not that I necessarily crave the attention, its just that being so used to something and then having it suddenly taken away from you is well, kind of a traumatic experience. Like losing a child.
Then why cut it off in the first place? You may ask. A very valid question. I just...I just felt it was time.
Then stop pining.
Well I intend to, thank you very much.
So is that it? Is there anything else you would like to share with me?
I cant really think of anything...
Then good night.
(Stern voice...there's no arguing with it)
*sigh* Good night...

Frm Boi-Toy 2 Luv Jones

“hey, u deserve to know that I got married. I hope, hweva, that we can stil be friends. coz wat we had was great. o'wise I wish u d best. in everything. GUD NYT.”

Lisa (via text message)

12:25 am

wow, now ain't that something. She got married. Just like that. No warning, no wedding invitation. Not nothing. Not that I would have gone even if I had gotten one. Hell no. I mean, what would have I said to the guy?
“hey, congratulations. Um, by the way, I fucked your wife.”
Talk about the most awkward conversation ever.
of course, she may not have been his wife at the time but I am pretty sure that they were already romantically involved. In fact, if my memory serves me correctly, I actually remember Matthew mentioning something about her man being out of the country or some shit like that. Not that I gave two shits. I was there to get it in...the rest was just details; easily overlooked.
That being said, a lot of stuff suddenly makes a lot of sense. Her sudden lack of interest for one. I mean, think about it. After being so hung up on a brother, after only a week she was throwing around the word love like it was a frisbee, her sudden turn of apathy was more than just a wee bit...well, sudden.
She started screening my calls, not replying my messages, avoiding our once casual hook ups...i found it odd, of course but I had always chalked it up to her making me pay for hurting her feelings. For using her and dumping her like an old ratty dish cloth so torn and full of holes that it was beyond useless. I guess I was wrong. I guess it was because her man was back in town. And that he had come to do the one thing that I was never going to: put a ring on it.
And you know what? Good for her. And I mean that. She deserves to be happy. I just hope that she'll be happy with him. And no, I'm not just saying that because deep down I'm thinking that she would have been better off with me. Because the fact is, she wouldn't have been. I would have broken her heart everyday that we were together until there was nothing left to break. She deserves better than that. And if this guy can offer her that, then good.
It does make me wonder though. Its not the first time this has happened. Or something similar to it. I seem to attract the same kind of woman. The lonely girlfriend who's boyfriend isn't around to show her the attention she needs. Ive built up quite the reputation. For being the surrogate boyfriend. The guy who you call when you're looking for a night of seamless fun. He wont respect you in the morning, but honey, isn't that kind of the point? That's what a boyfriend's for. And so by default Ive become a chronic dater. No girl is willing to give me the chance to be anything more than that. Because if I can charm my way into her pants (and this is a girl who considers herself pretty principled) how many other girls have I managed to charm out of their underwear? Not a number she wants to think about and certainly not a number she wants to play around with.
And I have to be honest, for most guys, thats not necessarily a bad thing. I mean, a nigga can get a whole lot of nookie that way. And everyone knows a nigga don't play around when it comes to nookie. But what happens when said nigga (in this case, me) gets tired of the nookie? When all he wants to do is get all love jones on a chick. Settle down. Get himself a boo and just chill...what then?
Now, don't ya'll be jumping to any conclusions now. Because I'm not saying that I want to settle down and make babies or nothing. But then again, I'm not saying that I don't. All i'm saying is that when the time does come, how do I keep the boy toy image from working against me? Ideas anyone?

Relapse: They Call Me The Corruptor

It was supposed to be simple. I go over, get her comfortable, get her naked; then bing, bang, boom, i give her the business and then out of there.
Business as usual.
I had no qualms about it. In fact, I was actually quite the expert at it and had no doubt whatsoever that things would go according to plan. Forget that I was in the worst drought of my life, (well, maybe not the worst but certainly the worst in recent memory) forget that I was a lil rusty (I needed some serious greasing and there was not a drop of alcohol in sight) and forget that this girl had a white dude for a boyfriend who she would not shut up about, (you should see her Facebook profile pic, its ridiculous) I was going to get it in.

Step 1: Going over
Was simple enough. I had never been to her place and she didn't have a phone on her but she proved quite resourceful, giving me the number of a boda guy she frequently used named Robert who I called when I reached kamokya and who drove me right up to her front door. The only zib there may have been was that the dude quite calmly and like it was the most common thing in the world asked me to pay him five thousand Uganda shillings for services rendered.
I ran a hand through my hair.
“you cant be serious.”
but he was.
I did a few quick calculations, I wasn't that broke but there was no way I was going to fork over 5k for a ride that clearly didn't deserve it. I told him I had two. After a minute or two of back and forth and a little persuasion on Bridget's side, he finally accepted the money. I handed it over and followed Bridget inside.

Step 2: Getting her comfortable
Now although she had home court advantage, the advantage was really mine. She was wearing a pair of short shorts that showed of her thighs and a blouse (without a bra) that tied at that back of the neck. A few flicks of the wrist and that baby would be gone. And so I set about the task of getting her comfortable. I made her laugh, made her dance, let my hands roam free... I pulled out all the stops but at best, it was a hit and miss. She would only let them roam so far. Too far up the thigh and she would spin away giggling, asking me what I thought I was doing.
“you know what I'm doing.” was my answer more than once.
“but I have a boyfriend.”
Pulling her down on top of me. (there was no where to sit but on the bed)
“I know, but he isn't here is he?”
But the thing was, he might as well have been. Damn friggin technology. And damn yahoo with its yahoo messenger. And damn video chatting. Damn it all to hell. Every time I thought I was getting somewhere, every time that hand reached that border between “a big maybe” and “now we're talking” there would be a quiet “bloop” and a new IM from that Greek bastard she called her boyfriend. And every time that happened any progress made would suddenly vanish and I would have to start all over again. Pish-tosh, I was beginning to think, you know what? Fuck it. If I have to work this hard for it, it obviously aint happening. But the thing is, anyone who knows me can tell you, I aint one to give up so easily.

Step 3: Getting her naked
She kept on telling me how cute I was. So cute that it scared her.
I gave her a puzzled look.
“What does that even mean?”
“what it means,” she said drawing close, “is that,” she pulled me in as if for a kiss but stopped me just one yard shy of the touch down line, “I don't trust myself with you...”
she pushed me away. Got up and went to the kitchen. It was a moment or two before she reappeared when she did she came back with two glasses of wine. The wine had been a birthday gift from that Greek bloke of hers. An hour before she had been scared to death to open it. Now she was cracking it open and putting it back with a guy who would not hesitate to take the first opportunity to take advantage of her.
“bad move.” I mused to myself. “Bad, bad move.”
All smiles i accepted the glass of wine.
After a couple of sips she set down her glass.
“I wanna go out tonight, what do you think I should wear?”
she got up and walked over to where all her clothes were hanging. I got up and followed her.
“Let's see what you've got.”
she pulled out a flowered, if my memory serves me right, pink, black and white mid thigh high dress with a black belt.
“What do you think?” she asked me, holding it up.
I told her to try it on and I would tell her exactly what I thought.
And so she did. Practically undressing right in front of me. I tried to be gentlemanly about it but couldn't help but catch a little glimpse of titty before she pulled on a bra. A little glimpse of cutchie as she slipped out of her panties and into a pair that matched her bra. I watched as my window of oppotunity closed. On came the dress and out came the makeup bag. I was losing the friggin' battle.

Step 4: Bing, bang, boom- giving her the business
I don't think I have to tell you just how easy it is to get it cracking with a girl wearing a dress. Especially a short one. And so with this in mind I decided to look at my glass as half full instead of half empty. My vigor renewing as a result.
She still tried to fight me off but there was less disdain in her voice and I could tell that I was at least a step closer than I was before.
But you want to know what the most fucked up part of it was? Through it all she was still fucking IM'ing that guy of hers. It was kinda getting on my nerves but I kept my mouth shut about it and kept my engine running. And then she started talking dirty to him.
How do I know? I was sitting right there. And boy does this girl have a dirty mind.
After a couple of minutes of trying to keep my eyes from straying to the screen, she burst out laughing.
“what?” I asked, whipping my head to look at the screen.
“He wants me to touch myself.”
she was still giggling.
“then why don't you?” I was seeing a window of opportunity beginning to open again.

Bloop.
*And make sure you close the windows first.*

I laughed with her about that one and watched as a mischievous grin crossed her face. i could tell the wine was beginning to work.
I think she surprised both of us when she slipped out of her panties and tossed them in my direction. I caught them, surprised and threw them back at her.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like i'm doing?” she asked, positioning herself in front of the laptop,
“I'm having cyber sex with my boyfriend.”
She threw me a look. “Feel free to watch.”
I watched as one hand reached for one keyboard and her other hand reached for the other...

Drama-Tox Thesis: pt1

Leave me at the corner...(remember to breathe)...leave me at the corner...(i cannot breathe)...leave me at the corner...
but she doesn't.
She never listens...She doesn't care.
She's dragging me down with her, the destination's hell.
Leave me at the corner...I try one last time. But its of no use, my fate is sealed. Death is inevitable.
She smiles. She knows there is no escape. That I know there is no escape.
But I know something that she doesn't know. There's help on the way. An intervention. One that will force her to release me. All it needs is time...




Hey Nimo, I guess now its my turn. Um, I hope you don't mind me using your name; I'm sort of just winging it here. and as for the rest of you people out there, just to make things perfectly clear; Nimo is NOT the “she” forementioned above. she's far...far from it. As a matter of fact, Nimo *hand over heart* (my sponsor, my friend) is on the same mission as I am.
And um, what mission may that be? You might ask. Well, (one swallow, two swallows, a sip from my glass of milk, one more swallow) that would be Mission: Drama-Tox of course.
Let me explain:
Considering everything thats been going on recently (and when I say “recently” I mean like the past year or so) and all of the drama that's come along with it, Ive come to the realization that although I enjoy it (and loath at the same time) its not all that healthy for me. I need to take a breather. A major one.
They say that the first step to recovery is to admit that you have a problem. Well...hi, my name is Lloyd and I'm a drama junkie. I love the high of feeling low. Of beating myself over the head for being so stupid. Of scratching my head and wondering just how the hell I'm going to get myself out of this one. And how I even got myself into it in the first place. And why.
To go into the specifics of what Ive been stupid about, what Ive been beating myself over the head about, would mean writing you a book and seeing as I'm not up to it (and I'm sure you wouldn't be up to reading it even if I was) I'm not going to waste my time. However, let's just say that it involves two individuals (yes, they are women, although I'm pretty that sure both would prefer being referred to as girls) that I care about who through my vast ingenuity, I have managed to completely alienate. With one its been a merry-go-round and with the other a swing. One makes me dizzy and the other gives me vertigo. The mixture has left me feeling...well feeling kind of disoriented.
Okay, I feel like I'm going a little of course here. And the truth is, I don't even know which course I'm supposed to be taking. Its three in the morning and I'm feeling pretty tired. Maybe its time to go to bed and try again in the morning...
yeah, I think thats what I'm going to do. So until until morning...