macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

11:59 on the last train out

The next time I look someone in the eyes I will consciously remove the barbed wire fence around my heart The one with the big warning sign that reads “high voltage”. I suppose I haven’t been feeling too hospitable.

My intricate man made barrier peels right off, Exposing my organ in all it’s simplicity For the first time I see it as exactly what it is, A part of me that isn’t exclusive to me. Something natural that doesn’t need to be suppressed

I momentarily bask in the freedom of that epiphany Then remember I have to suck up the moat surrounding my new heart The one made of waters that run deeper than I care to admit It is a fact that the waters of the past aren’t meant to defend us, Rather, they immobilize us With a fear that only grows with time

When our own walls have doubled as dams We focus on what we’re keeping out forgetting the threat posed by the growing flood within It’s only a matter of time before the waters encompass everything Leaving us crippled or drowned. So I suck it all up drop by drop, the waters shallow, and then they clear.

Once the island is no more, I quickly begin to feel things again Things I didn’t even know I missed. My heart connects to old nerve endings and sends a multitude of harmonious vibrations throughout my body

They remind me quietly that I’m alive In the same way an old friend can remind us Of a memory lost somewhere in the dense bookshelves That make up our long term memories. It feels great.

I then turn to the stranger after only a brief moment that, for me, felt closer to an hour But here in this moment I’m able to look at him with eyes that are both vulnerable and fearless Staring in a way that my guarded, flooded heart wouldn’t allow I’ll ask him about preventing forrest fires, and controlling winds I wonder aloud- what of me is flammable? and what could use some air?

I smile with ease at the stranger, my friend. I make a joke that relaxes his face One that reminds him of his first heartbreak And how he built islands, and impenetrable hideaways So nothing could reach him and threaten his numbness

Maybe I’d even remind him that crazy is relative But I’d love to remind him that experience is universal. .. I think i did; we both exhale the tense fearful breath of unfamiliarity. The idea that we all are parts of a whole is soothing that way.

Perhaps even tomorrow at the start of his day He’ll make it a point to approach the woman sitting in the back of the train With the saddest eyes, and the most defeated expression.

He’ll start telling her about moats, and islands And he’ll ask her if he’s crazy for still being drawn to fire Although he’s a survivor of such terrible burns. He’ll ask her if the wind makes her feel alive, and if she remembers the butterflies underneath all that water.

He’ll make a joke about the world And how we’re all just going through it down here. Wandering in relative aimlessness, Sifting through the sands of unanswered questions until we die. The corners of her mouth will then curl up into a beautiful smile One she forgot about completely

I pray the strangers laugh as friends. I pray the friends laugh as strangers. I pray to experience the comfort of the familiar As often as I do the excitement of whats new Without limits, interchangeably, and unbiased.

I pray when he meets her, and they speak tomorrow they see its universal I pray when he makes her laugh she does so without restraint. I pray they look into each other’s eyes and see we’re all there.

I pray to look into his eyes and see myself. Smiling in a language I forgot I spoke Standing there with my stranger friend on the train Free heart and all.

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

defining a woman

What does it mean to be a woman? 

Does it mean I am weak? That I can’t handle the truth? That I can be easily overpowered?

Does it mean I am slow? That I won’t understand some things, that they will fly over my head? 

Does it mean I am a trophy? To be objectified, gawked at, appreciated, loved, and demonized for my sexuality if it isn’t easily defined? 

Does it mean I must accept my identity as it is interpreted by a man? What gives him the right to tell me who I am? 

Does it mean I must allow injustice upon myself? That I should knowingly share my love with one who strays? Accept it as what men do? 

Does it make me less of a woman if I don’t cook, or perform other household duties associated historically with my gender at a time when women didn’t aim to be more than a housewife? 

Does it make me less of a woman to have no intentions of ever being a housewife? 

Does it make me a bitch if I speak my mind? 

Does it warrant horrible insult if I use my body the way I want to? 

Is that not disrespect? 

Or is it irrelevant

Because I am a woman.

Because I am weak,

yet I bear the gift of life

(one your strong body cannot handle)

Because I am slow,

yet I catch a lie before you tell it.

Because I am beautiful,

yet my beauty must fall in your comfort zone, or it turns into something ugly. 

I’m expected to be sexy,

but not too sexual

Experienced yet naive.  

Captivating yet silent.  

(and you say I am the one who is crazy?)  

Who is irrational. Who needs to be lied to, because I can’t handle the truth? 

The truth is that isn’t a woman. 

A woman is not fragile. She is your rib, and without her you can’t breathe. 

To want a woman who has not lived, is like wanting a butterfly stuck in a cocoon. 

(would you prefer me a pretty vegetable, are you a closet necrophiliac?)

I, as a woman, as your equal demand respect. 

I demand to be treated as your equal. 

I demand to get what I give. 

I demand fairness,

I demand actualization.

I validate myself. 

As a woman.

I will not turn my cheek

I will not excuse

I will not be weak.

I am a woman. 

Hear me.

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

February 19th at 2:07 AM

Yesterday in my Philosophy class we had a discussion about the disambiguation of love. Is it physical, and if so can you feel it? Does it bring completion? Is it deliberate, if so then why does the phrase state we 'fall' in love? My professor actually deemed love as insanity. He posed the argument as: why would a person choose to enter such a compromising mental state with another, generating extreme vulnerability and an arguable percentage of failure? We dissected and tore into this matter throughout the class, so i won't necessarily go into detail and give my perspective on all of the aforementioned...but, truly- how could someone truly be in "love" and tear apart the complexity of it by using a cost-benefit analysis.

One can get hurt riding a bike. 

As any young lady will honestly tell you: i've had a few unfortunate romantic run ins;

however, 

i don't choose to let those (not-so-great) experiences detach me from my innate optimism when it comes to love and romantic relationships. The thing about love is, it's universal- everyone has a share of it in their lives. It may come in the form of a best friend, their hamster, or their mom.  The thing about individuals are: they're unique.  For example, one woman could make you a steak dinner, but since I'm just quite the particular gem, I may make you watery noodles. This may have actually happened once, but, to avoid additional deviance from my point: no two people walking this Earth are exactly the same...

That

Belief

Is

A

Cop

Out

The truth is: the person who's put up the walls and in a way 'given up' because they've been hurt is just scarred and scared. It's natural, we all feel that way for a little bit, but you can not let one person ruin your perception of one of the most cosmic themes in our lives. I'm believe that if someone acts in a certain and unprovoked way towards me, they have their own issues. Some call it deflection, i call it a mix of self esteem and moving forward in life. You can't dwell on the hurt of the past, it's detrimental to the potential happiness of the future. Of course, attending an HBCU i have definitely had my fair (entitled) articulations of "…… aint ……." but, I was young and silly. In all actuality, we DO choose who we want to entertain. But, here's a devil's advocate-esque thought...

What if these people will actually benefit us in the long run? After moving past the initial emotional state, it's possible to analyze the situation and take from it what will help you find out exactly what makes you happy. Flipping a negative experience to a broadened and deeper understanding of the Self. This may sound crazy to some, but let it sink in. If you're treated a certain way, does it make better sense to become an anti social serial dater/womanizer, or to understand what traits you do and don't want in your next. I would probably suggest the latter, but then again what do i know. 

Breakups don't always end negatively, sometimes it's all relatively amicable, and can make for interesting friendships. There are also those lovely times they need to immediately move to "the Island".

The Island is a fictional and beautiful utopia in which all evil ex boyfriends and girlfriends go to fuck each other. and stay forever. 

 the end.

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

2014.

I titled this post with the date of the impending new year for a few reasons.  First and foremost, the most obvious of those would be the fact that today we celebrate its arrival in a mere eleven hours. In addition, 2014 is the year I graduate University... a journey that has seen my personal growth first hand, one that I dually am sad to see go as well as ready to close. 2014 signifies a new era in my life, and I can't believe it's so close. 2014 inspires me to succeed, as I am my biggest critic (the Virgo in me, that annoying perfectionist chiming voice), and it also reminds me of all the blessings God has endowed to my life thus far. This past year has been one of monumental growth, I turned 21, became more independent than ever before, reevaluated irrelevant aspects of my life, refused to accept no for an answer, and inched closer to my career goals. I'm proud to say I'm satisfied with the way 2013 came to a close, and I'm happy with my continued ascent into womanhood. I make mistakes, as everyone does, but learning from mistakes are what separates the weak from the strong. I've had ups & downs this year, but that's life, and being alive is a blessing in and of itself. I'm ready for the new year....kind of, I still need to hit the mall and find a dress. Haha

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

september

i think in order for anything to truly prosper and grow where it is planted it requires a certain amount of energy as well as obvious nourishment and love. The most important form of nourishment and love comes from within, from the Self. It is impossible to grow without this self love and self esteem, and without growth one cannot find themselves. Thus the inability to find someone who will make them happy. You can't find someone you love or someone to love you without loving yourself first. You won't know what characteristics you appreciate in your partner. 

I dont know why im writing this in the second person, which is completely unorthodox in the world of literature and proper essay format. Maybe i'm thinking aloud or talking to myself. 

I'm a firm believer in the in-existence of coincidence. Thus, i believe everything happens for a reason. We've all made the wrong decisions with the idea that we're making the right ones, that's called a mistake; humans subsequently learn from their mistakes. The skin on your knees will scab over and make way for a stronger and tougher shell. 

In a perfect and beautiful world where everyones mother's taught them to be respectful honest and loving these unfortunate occurrences would happen far less often. But, they happen to the best of us and all we can do is attempt to learn and correct the mistakes that provoked these situations. 

So in reference to shitty encounters, It's alot easier to dismiss an entire gender or come at myself and what i did wrong rather than it is to accept the fact that i was spending (wasting) time with complete asshole dickpussy, which would mean i have bad judgement of character, which is subsequently a whole different can of worms. 

Anyways all i'm trying to say is: Experience is the best and most priceless professor we'll ever encounter in this crazy dreamlike state we linguistically associate with the english word "Life". Don't dismiss it, learn from it. Everything happens for a reason.

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

life as we know it

the thing about time is that it's constantly moving regardless of the stagnancy of the individual. what i mean by this is, its our own personal duties to reach and grab what we want for ourselves now, because this is the youngest and oldest we'll ever be. What triggered this train of thought is the simple fact that as i near my last year of undergrad, i look back on memories. memories of good times, memories of bad times, grades, people i met, and accomplishments. as the years went on the lists grew and i realized a couple things. the first being that enough will never be enough for me, which is both a good and bad thing. good, because i'll apply this concept to my career, to my life goals, and constantly move upwards in the ladder of this life. bad, because when it comes to personal relationships i have a sense of idealism that hasn't necessarily worked out for me in the best ways, always. granted, i have great friends i trust and am thankful for, but there have been instances when this mentality has bit me in the ass. perfection is an unattainable human characteristic. i had to learn that I am not perfect therefore it isn't fair for me to expect perfection from anyone. whether it be a friend, or more than that, it's something i've had to and still am coming to terms with. not saying at all that every flaw should be celebrated, but we have to understand the flaws we ourselves are willing to accept in relation to their outweighing positive counterparts. Since time is something that cannot be reclaimed, we have to live our lives happily and accept what comes to us as a blessing. negatives as a lesson, and move forward. i've learned so much about myself from my time here at the howard university and im glad that i had the chance to grow with as well as know alot of you. #2014

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

-1year/+1year

so i accidentally restored my phone settings to that of may2012

brilliant, i know.

but... the accident actually ended up presenting something positive to me

nothing really matters once time is introduced into the equation

a year ago i didnt have the same notes, contacts, texts, photos in my phone

a year from now, i wont have these

basically what i'm saying is that a seemingly negative accident can actually make some positives come out of hiding. call it a 'glass half full' mentality.

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

i'm fucking obsessed with these summer flowers.

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

Lemons

when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. that's the old saying and that's whats socially considered to be "good advice". A staple in the category of good advice. Positivity and optimism. There is a distinct difference between what's good advice, and what's the right thing to do at a time. I used to care about irrelevant things and people but I'm finished with that brief phase of my life. Lemons in this case are used as a metaphor for resourcefulness as well as tact, yet, when a lemon goes bad it simply becomes a festering representation of a fuck-up. Excuse my french. There isn't any room for aforementioned fuck ups when one has plans to not only improve themselves but to grow up as a whole. Being held back by irrelevance simply makes for a fool. There are things as well as people in this world who's entire purpose is to attempt to bring you down physically, mentally, and emotionally. Young insecure girls love to slander one another. Yet, it takes maturity, peripheral access, and the ability to create a mental image of a desired future to realize the essential. The essential is that there comes a time when a line must be drawn. What is beneath you, what you will not stand for, and what is truly miniscule and timelessly unworthy of causing a furrow in anyone's brow. Make new lemonade from scratch.

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

happy little girl

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

Happiness

I heard once that you should strive to be so beautiful that you refuse to taste sadness even if it's the only thing left to eat. I didn't make that up myself but I know the person who did, that's a great quote. 

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

Low self esteem women truly break my heart but Jhene Aiko told me you can't save them all. It's just so sad because backgrounds and situations truly determine your character. They should start classically conditioning young girls to accept themselves as beautiful Queens so no man can ever tell them what theyre worth, what theyre made of, or especially not who they are. Don't EVER let a man make you feel inferior. EVER. That's what I'm about. Quote me. 

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

Crabs in a Fucking Bucket.

reevaluation

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

When someone lives to see a certain age, does it become more of a celebration of life than a grieving of death when they do pass?

RIP. Allah yarhamu. 

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

Drake and East African Girls

I am an East African Girl. A couple years ago, one of my friends told me that being an East African meant I’m not really black. A visibly mixed-race girl with a “high yellow” complexion and sandy brown hair telling me I’m not black didn’t sit well with me. I wanted to tell the girl, in the words of CB4, I’m black y’all. I’m black like the back of Forrest Whitaker’s neck. I’m black like Snoop Dogg’s lungs. I’m black like some Helvetica font against a white backdrop trying to sell you stuff.

I’m a black woman. But my nose, my loosely coiled curls and my fivehead make me black in a way that extends the colorism debate, creating this hierarchy of aesthetic value where I’m not just black, I’m also acceptably black.

Back in the day, white people went to East Africa to find Iman, their acceptable black girl. When white people did this, former Essence Editor-in-Chief Marcia Gillespie called East African model Iman Abdulmajid “a white woman dipped in chocolate,” highlighting Iman’s acceptable blackness while also lamenting the fact that black women’s beauty is often measured in their proximity to whiteness.

Two decades later, Bill Cosby in his “Ask the Ethiopian” speech said African Americans should aim higher than menial jobs because menial jobs are for “Ethiopians,” i.e. immigrants, i.e. The Other. Marcia and Bill emphasized the otherness of East Africans like we’re not black, too, which is why I’d like to tell Bill: please let us, East Africans, have all the menial jobs. But in accordance with Marcia Gillepsie’s criticism, make sure those shitty jobs aren’t jobs where the way we look will inspire racists to pat us on the back and deem us more respectable or better than other black people. This is what the fashion industry notably did this with Iman.

East African Girls, Iman included, take part in a system that marginalizes and limits other forms of aesthetic blackness. Every image of Iman or Yasmine Warsame or Liya Kebede reinscribes white beauty through black beauty. Reinscribing white beauty through black beauty has always been with us, but in recent years it has inspired rappers to reference East African Girls like we’re the 49th Law of Power, predictably denigrating black women who lack acceptable blackness in the same tired ways.

The first rapper I remember rhyming about East African Girls was Nas. In “The Set Up,” a song from Nas’ “It Was Written” album, Nas raps, “They thought the hoes were Somalian.” The “hoes” in question are “two fly bitches, Venus and Vicious.” On his latest album, “Life Is Good,” Nas references East African Girls again, in a party song called “Summer” ft. Miguel and Swizz Beats.

East African Girls have been referenced in several other songs: Wale’s “No One Be Like You” (“Somalian women, Ethiopian queens/Never could tell the difference, I just know that you mean”) and “Hold Yuh Remix” (“I’m lookin’ for an Ethi-Somali here beside me”); Tinie Tempeh’s remix of Drake’s “The Motto” (“My bitch booty bigger than a fucking Eritrean”); Common’s “Celebrate” (“Exotic broads lobbyin’/Spanish, Somalian”); Drake’s “Where To Now” and Kendrick Lamar’s “Poetic Justice” ft. Drake.

In “Where To Now,” a track off Homecoming Season, Drake’s second mixtape, Drake spits sweet nothings about an East African Girl, over a J. Dilla beat. Drake desires the East African Girl (perhaps as much as he desires getting ghost head from Aaliyah): “Ethiopian girl, Ethiopian girl, with yo long curly hair and yo big ass bootay.”

In “Poetic Justice” by Kendrick Lamar ft. Drake, Drake does it again: “I was trying to put you on game, put you on a plane/Take you and your mama to the motherland/I could do it, maybe one day/When you figure out you’re gonna need someone/When you figure out it’s all right here in the city/And you don’t run from where we come from.” But couched between another lazy description of a faceless, nameless East African Girl, and Drake’s assertion that East African Girl is busy ignoring him for another man, is a story of afrodiasporic identity, which is what sets Drake apart, narratively, from other rappers.

While Drake’s definition of black beauty may seem limited, his definition of black identity is what Touré would call post-black, and Michelle Wright would call postwar diasporic black. Drake’s flow in “Poetic Justice” facilitates a broader discussion of black identity and black authenticity, a discussion that implicitly critiques Marcia Gillespie’s “white woman dipped in chocolate” statement, positing that East African Girls “come from” the same city Drake does, Toronto. The underlying message is Drake considers us black like him. Drake, as a black Jewish man whose Degrassi character Jimmy Brooks dated a fake East African Girl, occupies a similarly hybrid space like East African Girls. For many East African Girls, that feels like poetic justice because the definition of ‘authentically black’— descendants of Africans brought here as slaves— is a limited definition that doesn’t even include Barack Obama, much less East African Girls.

When one does a cursory Twitter search of Drake’s “East African Girl” lyrics, fetishistic things are tweeted by Drake fans, most notably East African Girls themselves. “Poetic Justice” functions, on some level, as a false empowerment anthem, a Song For East African Girls. There is a pleasure many East African Girls I know derive from hearing men, particularly Drake, talk about us to a larger supposedly authentically black population. A pleasure teenage me would no doubt indulge in, too. It’s a reiteration of our own myth that when God created humanity, he started with the Somalis, Ethiopians and Eritreans first— borne out of us is whiteness and blackness. It’s unscientific but when you’re a teenage girl, especially a young East African Girl, there’s no science needed to justify supremacy or fetish and where those two things interplay.

East African girls are generally not mixed race, yet this idea that we are is deeply embedded in the minds of white racialists, leading some to believe we’re an entirely different, special, exotic breed of people. This goes back to the pseudoscience of Carleton S. Coon’s “The Races of Europe.” Anthropologists and white racialists, which are often one in the same, have been claiming we are of majority Arab or white or “Afro-Asiatic” descent for years. And while that isn’t the sentiment of Drake or Nas lyrics, our alleged mixedness underpins their lyrics by virtue of the sheer selectiveness of the East African Girls shouted out in hip-hop lyrics. When Drake or Nas reference East African Girls, it can be easily inferred that they mean Cushites representing the Horn of Africa (Ethiopia, Eritrea and Somalia). “Cushite,” a term derived from “Cush” of the Hebrew Bible and Quran, is in reference to our shared “Afro-Asiatic” language classification, which is often mistakenly typified as a shared racial identity. This little mistake triggers a big mistake: the conflation of biology and genetics with race and ethnicity as a social fact, which reifies the racial categories.

One of the most popular threads on Niketalk.com, a sneakerhead forum, is called, “African Women Appreciation Thread: ‘Young East African Girl/Thoroughbreds.” A commenter in the forum who goes by Macc E-Money claims he was deprived of “beautiful African women,” and wasn’t able to procure a Somali “thoroughbred” until he left his home state of Michigan. Macc E-Money references Drake’s “Young East African Girl” lyric, presenting black beauty in a limited way and privileging East Africans over other Africans while passing it off as an appreciation of African beauty.

The lines between acceptance, fetishism and exoticism are blurry. It would seem that the primary distinction between black (North American) men, East African men and white men exoticizing East African Girls is that for many white men and even some East African men, the exoticism is firmly rooted in a belief in the racial categories—a belief that race is biological when it is in fact social, and a fetishization and romanticism of our Arab World ties and colonial past. For a lot of black men like Drake, it’s way less insidious. At best, it’s a misguided reinscription of the white standard of beauty through acceptably black women. At worst it’s intra-racial discrimination. Usually, it’s a combination of all these things but if representing, hyping and esteeming women with acceptable blackness is good for all girls—Trickle Down Acceptability, if you will— then we’d probably live in a post-racial world where fairies and dragons and Tupac populated the earth.

Sadly, we live in a racist, sexist world where black men and white people can hurt black women in the same ways. Black women hurt black women, too, but differently: we don’t have each other’s back. Those that see themselves represented in the lyrics and the videos, accept it without questioning it. And those who lament the overrepresentation of East African Girls, frequently fail to realize that the “Young East African Girl(s)” of Drake’s lyrics are like all women of color; they are objectified and male-gazed upon in hip-hop. These women are mythic, “exotic” generalized by rappers as the ambASSadors of their ethnicity or nationality. We are an idea rooted in a scant and skewed example— a token— from Drake’s own lived experience, mixed in with a little bit of mainstream imagery and a history that isn’t even our own.

Perhaps my own cousin, Leyla who Drake once bought lunch for, is Drake’s East African Girl. Maybe his East African Girl is my friend, Ayan that Drake met while clubbing. Maybe his East African Girl is like Helen Gedlu or Lola Monroe. Drake’s East African girl, whoever she is, does not account for of all of us. Our varied hip-to-waist ratios and hair textures and booties (or lack thereof) and cultures make us more nuanced than whatever Drake or anyone else needs to believe.

The overepresentation of East African Girls cannot be separated from broader media representations of acceptable blackness. Broader representations that, in the 90s, brought us acceptable black women like Tatyana Ali, Stacey Dash, Chilly of TLC, etc.; the biggest face being Scandal’s Kerry Washington. It’s no wonder Kendrick Lamar believes there is a balance issue. Kendrick cast Brittany Sky, a black woman, as his love interest in the video for “Poetic Justice.” Brittany Sky is a black woman who is neither East African or light-skinned, however she is every bit as acceptably black as Iman. It’s Drake’s love interest—or rather, sex interest— who is actually balancing representation. But she is who Drake is having sexually for that night, not who, as the video and the lyrics suggest, Drake wants; Drake wants the East African Girl he’s talking to on the phone. Drake is talking on the phone with the East African Girl while his sex interest is splayed across the bed, naked. Thus, even within the video there is a hierarchy. There’s a specific depersonalization and objecthood of the non-acceptable black woman’s body. The non-acceptable black woman is granted zero agency, and rendered the least desirable in a video that is supposedly progressive.

There is nothing progressive about acceptable blackness. There is, however, something progressive about Drake and the internal conversation he seems to be having in his music. When Drake raps about this East African Girl as he is talking to this East African Girl on the phone, he is also talking with other black people. He is having a conversation with Marcia Gillepsie and Bill Cosby and me and that girl I used to be friends with who said I wasn’t black. This conversation requires context that can’t be reproduced for an American audience with a limited knowledge of the nuances of blackness. This conversation cannot translate externally, hence the phone. The video begs for the consistency of our transmuted presence but the direct presence of an East African Girl wouldn’t make sense to an audience that doesn’t understand Drake’s specific location in the diaspora, what diaspora is, or who East Africans are.

This piece can be found on The Feminist Wire.

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

8:10

Niggas got 8:10s.

Niggas dont have phones. 

Are niggas bouta be up at 8:10.....

uuuuuuuuum. 

I wanna go talk to my roommates but the virgo in me is trying so hard to hold on to that little strand of pride we love so much

I like to think nobody reads this. lol.

[macaantaxsaida-blog-blog-bl-blog]

whylin pt 5

here i am again slightly tipsy on a sunday which is supposed to be my self revelation day where i just write and do my homework. Of course tonight a different opportunity presented itself and being the spontaneous person i am (code for stupid) i decided to go with it. Little did i know id get kicked out for drinking a beer. Who. the

fuck

does

that. 

Clearly im salty but whatever. Shit happens. So now im in my room and i think trust issues by drake is the realest shit ever. 

Moments like these are when i wish i had an outer body experience in  which my outer body self had a video camera.

Night.