quadquest64

[quadquest64]

The Day I Met Tucker Max (& He Crushed My Confidence)

I am a man of many of L’s but there’s one that stands alone in its sheer arrogance. The day I tasted complete defeat at the hands of my (digital) mentor Tucker Max. Eleven years ago to this day over the course of a single coffee, I got bodied, broken, and bowed beneath the man who taught me to write offensively & use my words to throw a punch (drunk). This is a piece on why it’s probably the best thing that could have happened to my drive, my goals, and of course my dum dum twenty-two year ‘ole brain. 

Don’t worry, we’ll arrive at the carnage soon but TL;DR, being utterly and effortlessly dismantled by one of the three foundations of your writing styles, two foundations of Fratire, and single favorite people will do things to your self-esteem. In my case, it ended in a very long nap (as is tradition for insurmountable boss battles), a very long & uncompromising look at my then current level, and a very long (but immensely rewarding) journey back to the basics. To inevitably head towards a total fundamental mastery of “most” of the skills I started to eyeball over seventeen years ago. Sound boring?? Good, bud, I didn’t want you here anyways. Back to Babar and let the actual adults discuss their craft.

Like any sane person, I can remember exactly where I was when I read “I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell” for the first time. My junior year at Allen High a buddy gave me the book that would permanently alter my brain chemistry. She is (un)-ironically now an uber conservative Christian who trembles in my presence, refuses to make eye contact, and deleted me off Facebook. Can’t imagine why. Anyways, to be crystal clear, I’ve alwaaaaays been a bookworm. It is arguably my strongest skill, and surely the one I’ve conquered several times over. I distinctly remember being a regular reader by daycare, my dream career being an author by third grade, and starting my Stephen King collection soon after (explains a lot, I know). 

Up until that point the funniest thing I had ever read outright was “You are not Dave Chappelle, and you are not funny” by the pre-social media Pirate King himself Maddox. Up until that point, a short story had never reduced me to tears, let alone a string of them. Up until that point I had not realized I had the capacity to work as a comedy writer. IHTSBIH changed the trajectory of my life’s work in under twenty minutes. I can still hear the click of the key turning in my head. Feel the gears whirl. If not the specific story, I still remember the specific thought branded into my brain.

“I can do this”

So did it I did. Like I said I had always wanted to be a writer for near as long as I could remember but I didn’t know what exactly I wanted write to or was capable of. I am primarily a fiction reader, but I am definitely not a fiction writer. My fiction muscle shines in comedy, satire, and group endeavors. In terms of fantasy, I’m probably not going to the next J.K. Rowling (praise the Lord for large favors). Tucker inspired me to pursue a different path. Maddox was a major early influence too but for different reasons. Maddox taught me how to break targets down, Tucker taught me how to build tales from scratch (truly the Hunter S. Thompson of the 21st Century). I figured if I focused my left brain on a distinct satirical edge, and my right side on producing & perfecting my storytelling skills, I’d have a solid basis for the brand I wanted to build. Left for building, and right for destruction. I had the blueprint; the next step was the application.

The first thing I did was start throwing parties. The second thing was to start writing about them. I organized too many shin-dings to count honestly. I didn’t truly grasp the impact at the time, but this came with the perk of a built-in audience. Everyone’s an egotist, and once you start scribbling about the squad, it quickly becomes a defining characteristic. I was also extremely fortunate to have been a part of the Myspace to Facebook era of teenagers. Listen to Grandpa Simpin when he tells you that pre-meme & Chaperon sites, it was the fucking Wild Wild Web. Extremely fertile grounds for the taking & easy to carve out a slice for yourself if you occupy the right niche, possess the adequate amount of bloodlust, or like me had both in spades. 

From The Archives 

Date: February 9, 2013 at 2:49:40 AM EST

“I started writing sporadically soon after. It wasn’t pretty. In terms of writing skills during and post high school, I was very rough. The ideas were there but I had trouble fully forming them, and the execution was far from consistent. My formula for an article consisted of me thinking about something for weeks, or even months, and then getting enough motivation or hate fuel to write a note. Even at eighteen, I recognized the fact that I had to learn how to write at will, not just when the fancy struck me.

I embarked on a campaign to write at least one article a week for a year. Fortunately, I was in a position to allow me to fully immerse myself into writing like a crackhead. The goal of the mission was to radically increase my writing stamina in a short amount of time. While proficiency with grammar and punctuation was an ability I needed to learn, I decided to neglect the proofreading aspect. There’s no point to learning advanced athletic techniques without having the strength or drive to execute them. I instead focused on high intensity first drafts, learning how to translate my concepts into my work properly, and finding a writing style that wasn’t only comfortable for me but entertaining for my readers.

Learning to fight online was also essential for the genre my writing fell in. My articles in their very nature are invites to conflict and if I wasn’t capable of defeating if not holding my own against every one of my friends on Facebook, then it was foolish to think I could do anything against the many enemies I’d surely make on the rest of the Web.  Much like my writing, my argument ability was feral, undefined, and only learnable by copious amounts of sheer repetition. Not only did I need to learn how to write, but I needed to teach myself to annihilate people with hellish precision, relentless ferocity, and uncompromising logic. 

For about eight months, I did just that and then I hit a wall. My ambition was no longer satisfied with the level I had been writing at. I was getting bored. My goal had been accomplished. In about eight months, I had managed to write somewhere around 220,000 words. Granted it was all first draft nonsense, but the fact remains that a goodish length for a novel is 80,000 words. I may not have mastered the ability to write at will, but I had surely learned it.  

My ideas for subject matter also began to expand. I wanted to write more personal pieces, but I would have felt severely uncomfortable about writing about myself so intimately to people I might actually run into in real life, or hangout with. It’s a little too close to those people who live their lives through their Facebook statuses. My insult ability had also evolved to the point where I had continuously and actively hold myself back. I knew all my friends far too well and became far too adept at hurting people not to. I didn’t want to deal with the repercussions of destroying someone that I knew personally even if they did bring it upon themselves.

I was in the awkward position where I was getting too comfortable with myself to write for such a small audience like my Facebook friends yet still knowing I was nowhere near good enough for the rest of the internet. If I tried at that stage, it would have been the pinnacle of arrogance. Being the biggest frog in the well doesn’t mean I can take on the sea. So, I started preparing myself to go to the next step in the profession. 

I was determined not to post anything I had written unless it was going on my webpage. And before I did that, I needed to learn how to spell and use a Goddamn semicolon properly; I cut my campaign short to focus on refining my actual writing structure and semantics. Due to additional training, numerous setbacks, and of course the actual preparation of putting up the site I got pushed back about a year and half.”

Anyways

Seven years and some change. From fifteen to twenty-two, all I wrote was almost exclusively Fratire. If I wasn’t writing a short story, I was writing an essay. Long-form was first. I purposely pushed my word count to obnoxious lengths to build my stamina. My freshmen year of college I wrote a new note on Facebook every week along with my daily shitpost or dose of digital terrorism. Backing myself into that kind of corner made immense strides in my overall writing and offensive ability. Not just that but my overall notoriety. I went from being “that black kid in class who knew who how to read” to “that nigga on FB always posting crazy shit”. I didn’t just limit myself to writing either. I started honing my photography, speaking, and editing skills as well. I didn’t want to be Tucker, I wanted to surpass him.  

I had followed Tucker very closely up to and beyond this point. I read his entire bibliography backwards. Every book. Every blog post. Every success story and every failure. I was fully invested. Before the blogosphere exploded with a billion influencers, Tucker ran the non-fiction comedy block. Even after he retired from Fratire, he still made a clean pivot to extend his brand into a plethora of other areas that I made sure to keep up in perpetuity. Imagine my elation after Tucker announced he had moved to Texas; and not just any part but what would eventually become my indisputably my favorite city, Austin. 

Very recently, I had taken my first trip to San Marcos, and decided it would be where I continued my education. But that education was just an excuse to escape Dallas. My hometown had begun to suffocate me. All my friends would be coming home from their various misadventures in college, all the while I had never left. Straight embarrassing my dawgs. Meanwhile what I saw as arguably the top influence on my writing style moved in essentially down the road. I mean, I literally used to pray for such a shot. Safe to say compared to divine intervention, school was essentially an afterthought. When Destiny calls, you pick up and pack out. 

As soon as I got to San Marcos, I started working on my biggest scheme yet. I was lucky enough to have recently read Tucker’s series on How To Find A Mentor, and I thought “who best to teach me the business than the man himself?” Keep in mind friends - I was dumb, but I wasn’t an idiot. Tucker was recently coming off his third book tour, a movie, and an early retirement. Millions of books sold, and 89% of them consisted of him tearing apart people ill-equipped to deal with his genius. If I was going to come at the King, I best not waste my only round.

What could I offer a literal millionaire best seller for free that he did not already have? What value did I bring to the table. Why should I get one meeting with Tucker let alone his time and energy? How could I not only get a hold of him, but interest him enough to invest any of his invaluable time into a virtual unknown?

Short answer? I couldn’t. But that still wouldn’t keep me from trying to wedge my foot in the door. The number one thing I learned from Tucker’s piece was offer something of value for free to your ideal mentor that also showcases your skill set. As of the ripe old age of twenty-two, they were close to nil but still strong enough to cook up a scheme that wasn’t a straight wet dream. I created the (extremely) Unofficial Tucker Max Timeline. 

Created may have been a strong word. Tucker obviously lived it, and I outsourced the actual coding to a couple handy friends, but I went through all four of his books and put his stories into chronological order with locations, characters, titles, short summaries, and quotes. It wasn’t difficult per say but it was definitely a diligent process. I treated it as seriously as I had taken the Marines. This wasn’t just a fun lil project, it could potentially become my shortest route to what I set out to accomplish when I was a child. Becoming a recognized, skilled, and trained writer. I even had the follow-up slide show ready to present my goals, tactics, and abilities. Real professional, I know. Truly an embarrassing amount of effort was put into this as evidenced by my additional notes from my archive. 

Date: December 15, 2012 at 12:12:16 AM EST

Subject: A bit of background information before we begin.

 A bit of background information before we begin.

1. My lifetime goal has to be a professional writer.

2. Everything else I have done is basically to augment that goal.

3. It's exceedingly rare that I say either of the above to others. I have been doing so more often but this is a new development. I think it's shameful when people state their ambitions, then do nothing towards it or have nothing to show for it. I've just recently earned the right to do so. 

This stems from my fixation with reading. I never had a babysitter; my mom would just leave me in the library. I read my first Stephen King novel when I was in fourth grade and my first dirty one around the same time. This continues to this day. If I had my way, I'd read a new novel every week. And every time I finish a book, I'm just like "there is a group of people to get paid to write these, and I want to be part of it"

But of course, there's a million factors that go into being a professional writer. Least of all actual writing ability. The probability of success is low, and while it is still achievable, it could take quite a while to be published or even paid to write. And in the meanwhile, bills still need to get paid. Writing isn't a viable first career choice simply because you need money to live your life and support yourself and payment for writing is extremely unreliable and unpredictable.

I've played the "let’s not have money to pay for electricity/ my phone got cut off again until the bill gets paid/ scavenge for change so I can hit dat dollar menu and eat today" game and it’s not fun. Writing was always the end game, but I resigned myself to the fact I'd probably have to get a real job as an adult. The real issue was finding the quickest way to pro status, so I wouldn't waste time on some bullshit career while I could be writing books and whatnot.

I found the means when I was 15. That's when bloggers started hitting their stride, and it became much easier to get an audience and clout as writer on the web. Writers got paid absurd amounts from donations/ ads/sponsors and got real writer jobs all from their site. Within that sphere of Internet articles were writers that wrote about their drunken escapades, how stupid society was, and devoted themselves to shredding people, all while being hilarious. My domain in other words. The first time I read Maddox and Tucker Max, I was just like "People do this? People write this? I can do this. I will do this." 

So, I started. There's six years or so of back story in there where I trained and learned my current style, which brings us to the now. I'm an Internet writer, and now comes the part where I just have to start getting noticed and paid. This is doable in 3-4 years, but ain't nobody got time for that. I'm skilled enough now and I really want to avoid using my degree. I need to accelerate the success portion by graduation (a year and a half away). Cue Master plan.

 I briefly mentioned Tucker Max. I've kept up with his career and read everything he has written at least twice. He lives in Austin, Tx. He is a millionaire, appreciates talent, and is accessible. He would be an invaluable resource. All I simply have to do is impress the fuck out of him.

My basic goal is to get him to train/pay me as a writer. To that end, I want to spend at least the summer being learned by him and earning his endorsement. His mere name on my resume would be enough to fetch the interest of any writing endeavor that my skill set falls into, and my actual writing would be enough to keep it. Boom attention. Boom money. Boom writer. But first I need to get his attention. Being a writer and having a site is cool and all, but I need to blow his fucking mind before he even reads anything I've written. I will do this in two ways. 

1. Create a timeline for his stories for free as a thank you. - pretty simple, but nobody has done it yet. It'll have the same layout as his site, and he can just add it to his page. A fun fan tool and for people new to his writing. And it shows what I'm capable of off the bat.

2. Send him my books to be signed and within the package have 2 bottles of Deep Eddy's sweet tea vodka (his favorite) as a peace offering and a thank you.

The enclosed note will request an audience with him. When we meet, he can confirm I'm not a weirdo, and I can meet one of my favorite authors in person. This will also give me the opportunity to scope him out. I will impress him further and then secure another meeting with him, but this one will be exclusively devoted to selling my potential to him and convincing him that I'm a worthy protege.

At best, this because the catalyst to my success. At worse, I meet Tucker Max, get his attention...maybe a shout out plus followers on Twitter, and an awesome story. I need to go to Austin to check out the physical address of where I'm sending the books to confirm I can send a package. 

What do you think?”

Dawg, I think you are either stupid as fuck, too clever by half, or a dangerously upsetting combination of both. I would never in a million years use my age as an excuse for my incompetence but inexperience is a completely different story. And maybe that’s giving myself too much credit. I wasn’t just a rookie; I was a naive one. As evidenced by the reminder of my silly notes.

Date: February 9, 2013 at 2:49:40 AM EST

“Project TMS”

“Project ‘Teach Me The Sword’

Goal: The basic goal is for me to be able to write full time while being paid adequately for it by the end of the summer. Everything that comes after that is much desired but also obtainable via other methods.

Means: Tucker Max is a bestselling author, a multitalented writer with a firm grip of the business, publishing, marketing, and entertainment aspect of the art. He is also the one of the two founding fathers of the genre that I’m currently writing in, “Fratire”. He lives in Austin Texas, roughly thirty minutes away from me.

Tucker has an abundance of resources, a vast network of allies and a wealth of knowledge. I must prove myself as a professional writer and as a resourceful intelligent person that he can form a mutually beneficial relationship with. The absolute best way to accomplish this will be to request a “mentorship” with him.

Before I go into my rationale, it is essential that you don't believe this to be my end-all-fuck-yeah-I'm-famous-bring-the-beer-n-hoes plan. I've always planned to be a writer and trained the last six years to write online. The Tucker tactic is a fairly recent development; I was already planning to become a paid writer without his aid. I have multiple plans to support my grand strategy, and should this fail, I will fall back on those. I'm merely investing so much into it because it is the most direct and efficient manner in which to achieve the end goal.

One of the most important things to understand about this plot is the depth that I lucked out. Tucker moved to Austin in 2009. That made him accessible for in person interaction, but I wanted to meet him as a pro and not a fan. At the age of 19, I was nowhere near ready to approach him as a person let alone as a writer. The thought of apprenticeship had never even crossed my mind. Flash forward to 2012 where several events occur in conjunction to make this a feasible avenue of approach.

• Tucker retires from Fratire

• Tucker launches personal blog with several articles relating to methods to which a person could apprentice within the field that caught their interest

• I moved to San Marcos from Dallas.

• I ‘go pro’ as a writer, design and launch my website.

Individually these factors wouldn’t mean much but since they happened in such a rapid and convenient manner, it created an incredible opportunity that I'd be foolish not to exploit.

If I can obtain this mentorship, it will not only streamline my process of being a full-time paid writer, it will also be a catalyst to multiple business opportunities. It will be a period of intense and drastic growth in a relatively short amount of time. I could hypothetically go further as a writer within six months under Tucker Max than I have in six years on my own.

There are two major and inherent risks within this plan.

1.) Getting his attention

2.) Obtaining an audience with him

I've came up with 5 preliminary steps to minimize this risk while maximizing the chance that he will not only take note of me but take an active interest in my talent off the bat.

5 Preliminary Steps:

Step 1) Be apt enough in ability to approach Tucker.

Step 2) Get Tucker’s attention by offering him something that he can use and offer to it him for free.

Step 3) Secure an in-person audience with Tucker Max.

Step 4) Request two hours of his time in which I will make my case.

Step 5) Give Presentation and blow his fucking mind.

The first step is the simplest for me but the most difficult for the people that often approach him. I am already a writer and have several sites that serve as a testament to my talent. The most important thing these sites display is evidence that I can consistently create well thought out and original content. This already puts me ahead of the legions of fan fucks that want milk from Momma Max's teat.

Step Two was slightly more difficult because I found trouble imagining anything I could give to a man with such a wealth of resources that he couldn't get it from somewhere else. Even if I did give it to him for free, it's extremely likely that someone else could produce the same thing at a much better quality or much more efficiently for a cheap price. Fortunately, I'm smart as shit and crafty as fuck.

I came up with the idea to make Tucker an interactive timeline for his stories. This timeline will cover the stories from all four of his books with the proper dates, a brief synopsis, extended quotes from the tale and a link at the bottom that will either take the reader to the story on his site or to buy the book on Amazon. This timeline will have the exact same format as his site. This gives him the option to merely implement a new timeline feature on his site. The timeline tool would be a unique addition to his sites that his fans would love, help new readers understand him a bit better, and an interesting reference point for his career as a writer.”

Yeeeeeeah, if the title didn’t give it away, I hope the first part of that email did. A few quotes that scream unabashed arrogance.

“It is the most direct and efficient manner in which to achieve the end goal”

“I ‘go pro’ as a writer”

 “Give Presentation and blow his fucking mind”

“I am already a writer and have several sites that serve as a testament to my talent”

“I'm smart as shit and crafty as fuck”

More Red Flags than countable and almost too much cringe to comprehend. 2012 was a rough time for all of us. It only gets worse from there:

“My gifts and his curiosity should be enough to be granted an audience. From what I've read, Tucker is generally very approachable, and people have gotten to hang out with him for far less. There's a chance that he'll want nothing to do with me, but it is pretty low. He can recognize strong wills and talent and meeting me wouldn't risk him in the slightest.

Step four is by far the sloppiest of my ENTIRE plan simply because I don't know Tucker in real life, nor do I know anyone else that does know him. Usually, I'd be content to walk into any unknown situation, knowing I can analyze and work my way around it but this isn't any situation. It’s a one and one with Tucker Max who is stronger than me in every way possible.  

What more, we don't have any familiarity with one another which will lead to inherent awkward first pains. I'll be wildly aware that he'll be reading me the entire time and may begin to let his presence overwhelm me. I'll be entirely focused on interpreting him or impressing him, and I'll forget to do my own analyzing. I'm going to be fucking terrified until we become comfortable with one another.  

However, once I become comfortable with Tucker, it's likely that I'll drop my guard which is an extremely distasteful course of action during the initial meeting. I don’t want to do anything that could potentially be off putting towards him (LMAO).

The best way to counteract this is to bring a very pretty, very intelligent, and very well put together female to accompany me. This gives both of us something else to focus on and works as a conduct for more interactive conversation. If I have good chemistry with the girl and we are all extremely intelligent and entertaining individuals, then the words, jokes, and amusement will flow as abundant, mighty and beautiful as the ancient Euphrates.”

It’s truly tough reading this after a smooth eleven years. Overconfidence is a keystone to my shtick but it is only truly handy if I’m aware of my egotism. To my minimal credit, I ran these emails past at least ten of my closet friends. All of them thought it was a splendid idea, which was an issue in its own right. Even my most brilliant of buddies didn’t clear more than a year or two older than myself. We all thought we were adults at twenty-two, and maybe we were, compared to being literal children, but I don’t think I’d be overreaching to say they had their own blinders to my bullshit as well. Again, 2012 was a rough time for all of us.

My best friend and roommate Taylor had held my hand throughout the entire process. She had always been amongst the most supportive people in my life since we had actually started hanging out post-graduation. I love her deeply to this day, and I almost never implemented any major plan without her input. She’s brilliant, beautiful, sociable, a terrifying tactician in her own right, and perhaps, most importantly, she was the strongest reader aside from a handful of dweebs in my circle. Almost certainly the strongest person I knew in Allen or San Marcos, and the entire reason I had fallen in love with the city to begin with. Her kindness was only matched by her frankness. No other women including all my exes at the time had ever understood me half as well. Combined with her sunny demeanor, she was the easy choice to accompany me on my journey. Perhaps the only choice.

The Tucker Max E-mail

Mr. Max,  My name is Quado Chukwujindu and I've created something I believe you will find useful. I've made a timeline of the stories that span your four books as well as additional significant events from your career as a Fratire writer. This timeline gives dates, locations, a brief synopsis of the events and extended quotes from the tale as well as a link at the bottom that will either take the reader to the story on your site or to buy the book on Amazon. In order to give you the option to implement the feature into your site, I've made it with a similar format to your site. This timeline is fully functional, interactive, and completely yours. This tool would be a unique addition to your site that your fans would love, help new readers understand your history better, and act as an interesting reference point for your career.  However, this timeline is also roughly three weeks from total completion. You can find the current version with the first fifteen stories on the link provided. I'm emailing you while it's an unfinished product because I'd like some of your input before proceeding further.  - Some of these stories happened within the same month or timeframe and I couldn't deduce what order they came in, so I put them in the order in which they were presented. If you could clarify, it'd greatly improve the overall accuracy.  -The location was unclear in many of the text, and if you can recall where it took place, rectifying them becomes a simple matter.  - Is the overall design of the timeline acceptable or would you like me to change something? Is this something you’d want to implement it onto your site, or should I purchase a domain name and transfer it to you? - I've attached two documents to this email. One is the raw data from the four books with dates/locations/ synopsis/ quotes. If there are any changes you’d like me to make before entering it into the Timeline, I will do so. Also attached are the icons for what I believed to be the most significant events in your fratire career. If you’d like me to change, add, or remove any of them, this is also easily accomplished.   If you could assist me in answering these questions, it'd ensure that you receive the best version possible, tailored to your liking.

By now there's a strong probability the thought "Who is this guy, why is he doing this, and what is the catch?" may have crossed your mind. Pardon my rudeness, and allow me to give a proper introduction.  I already told you my name earlier, but what I didn't mention was that I write for my site under the pen name "The Negro Hero". I launched my site in November of 2012, but it was a goal I had been working towards since early 2006.  Not only have I been a fan of your work since then, but I've followed your career with an avid interest the past six years. Not only did you pave the way for the genre my writing currently falls under, but you've been an invaluable resource of knowledge and a large inspiration to me over the years. I've seen you as sort of a mentor. As such, I wanted to give you a tangible token of my gratitude that you'd find useful and I wanted to do it as a fellow professional rather than a mere fan. There is no catch to the timeline. However, I do have an additional proposal to offer you. Whether or not you accept, of course has no bearing on the timeline whatsoever.  Last semester I moved to San Marcos to finish up my last two years of school at Texas State University. This puts me within a 30-45 minute range of your current city. Recently I mailed a package with your trilogy of books to your P.O. Box address to be signed. If at all possible, I'd like to pick up these books in person, and if you are feeling especially generous, perhaps we can do this over dinner. This dinner will serve multiple purposes. It can double as a business meeting where we discuss the particulars of the timeline in addition to what you'd like me to change or add. It'd also save you the trouble of mailing back my books while allowing me an in person audience with the man whose taught me so much as a writer over the years.  This dinner of course would be completely on my dime, not at all exclusive to us, and if you'd rather have a home meal and don't mind hosting, I'm more than willing to bring the ingredients provided you understand the majority of the cooking will be done by you as I am undoubtedly the lesser chef. If you have qualms about letting a virtual stranger into your home, I understand, just name the restaurant, your guests, and I will make the reservations. Regardless of whether or not you accept my invite, I'd like to thank you for your time. I hope to hear back from you soon. (If I don't receive a reply with a week, I'll likely use other less professional manners to achieve contact with you. Please excuse my intrusiveness in advance.) You can reach me by email

Or by phone

  Regards, Quado "The Hero" Chukwujindu

Sheesh, what an unmitigated dumb fuck. I could point out about a billion things that I did wrong, from the length of the email to the childish assumptions, and again the sheer arrogance of the entire endeavor. But the absolute wildest part about my slimy little scheme? 

It worked. 

Tucker emailed me less than a week later.

tuckermax@gmail.com

Feb 19, 2013

“First off, I applaud your effort in doing this. For real, that is awesome, and its obvious you have skill, not just motivation. 

Second--and much less important--it's a terrible idea. No one really cares about the timeline of the stories. Thats never occurred to me, nor has anyone asked for it. 

You know what would have been both awesome AND useful? A series of pictures type things that have awesome and hilarious quotes, like ecards or shit like that. 

That being said, I'm always down to meet someone who is both motivated AND skilled. There aren't a lot of those people around. When are you free?

“I’m always down to meet someone who is both motivated AND skilled”

I couldn’t believe it. But of course, I could. My six years of training wasn’t just for show. I had been actively dedicating 100% of my one brain cell to this exact outcome. All the parties. All the notes. All the jokes. All the continuous insults, maneuvers, and executions had brought me to this point. It wasn’t even probability, it was planning. The hardest part was proximity, and again we had solved that quite handily through either sheer luck or the literal Lord. Yes, I knew I was nowhere at that level yet, but I still had a steady pride in my ability. Ability that had thus gotten me through both the best and the direst of circumstances. And of course, with that pride came an ego. Dumbass or not, the difficult part was over. I’d already had his attention. Now what I needed was his interest. Which would be easy as I was interesting. Indeed, above the Heavens and beneath the Earth, I alone was the honored one. Tucker Max had noticed me. 

Careful what you wish for, kid. 

“Everyone Has A Plan Until They Get Punched In The Face”

Tucker: “What do you want to write?”

Me: *Blank Stare*

“Huh”

I had arrived at Jo’s Coffee Shop and my ultimate goal. I was sitting at the same table as Tucker Max. We exchanged pleasantries and began our conversation. I’d be lying if I said I remembered how our conversation started but I definitely remember how it ended. And it started with that one singular, simple question.

“What do you want to write?”

I froze. 

No. I didn’t just freeze. I blanked completely. Believe it or not in my entire existence, nobody had ever asked me that. At least outright. At that stage, people did not take me seriously when I spoke of writing. Any more than those who aspire to be professional athletes, musicians, or comedians. It’s insane because up until that point I had almost never been forthright with people when they asked me that question. 

At 33 I am confident at not only defining myself, my abilities, and my style but the same could be said for my ability to break down others. Eleven years ago was a different tale. I was not only insecure about pursuing an artistic profession but petrified at the thought of admitting it to others. Now less than two feet in front of me sat perhaps the one person who’d not only understand and encourage what I was trying to accomplish but facilitate the process in a manner other new, emerging, amateur, aspiring authors would quite happily murder for. And I fucking froze. 

Talking to Tucker in 2013 was like being caught in a cage with a tiger. I thought living in Allen had taught me apex predation but even the strongest of Hunters had ill prepared me for the beast that I brought upon myself. Again, I need to reiterate this was over a decade ago. Tucker was still unmarried, only four years into therapy, and a few hundred failures from the man he is today. Yes, he had retired from being an active asshole but that did not stop him from being an animal like opponent.

I don’t mean that as an insult either. To this day, I remember his rhythm. Truly feline instinct, reflex, and implementation. His casual demeanor did little to belay his aura of complete control and conversational dominance. He was actually quite kind in comparison to his chronicles. He wasn’t particularly vicious…but the experience was. Swear it was like a streamer sparring with a samurai. Just an endless rain of targeted blows meant to batter, bruise, and of course breakdown. I had stepped into his domain, and he had dissected me with a single statement.

“Careful what you wish for, kid”

“Have you ever been on Cracked.com?” I asked cautiously.

He laughed scornfully.

“I don’t read Cracked”

If anything cracked at this point, it was my soul. Peeled apart as easily an onion.

“I could write about doing security.” I slowly countered through a mouth full of cotton.

Tucker notably softened at this point

Tucker: “Have you ever read (to my deep shame, I cannot recall the author)”

I had not. Tucker talked me through a few of his tales and recommended the novels if that was the route I wanted to take. I made the mistake of perking up.

“I want to write fiction.”

His demeanor instantly darkened.

Tucker: “THEN WHY DON’T YOU WRITE FICTION?”

I did not answer. I did not have a real answer. The real answer is that again despite my bibliography consisting almost of nothing BUT fiction at this point I still found myself struggling to stray from the path I had set upon at sixteen. The real answer is that I STILL can’t write fiction unless I was in a group, or it was a comedy. But at this point I was already drowning in shame and did not want to sink deeper. I was beginning to feel like the fool I had proven myself to be.

Even Taylor’s arrival had done nothing to serve as a buffer between me and the bottomless well. He again was completely cordial to her but didn’t even glance at her otherwise. Taylor being a wise Queen sat wordlessly and absorbed each of his points rapt with attention as her equal was neutralized with an almost comical ease.

Save me white woman

But there was no saving me. I had fucked up. Majorly. I thought I was time-skip status, when in reality had just (literally) left my first island. He hadn’t insulted me once, scarcely had raised his voice, and the swearing was nonexistent. Yet I couldn’t get past his basic stances. Performance anxiety played a part but in reality, I had played myself. Still, I tried to pivot. To build a bridge, I brought up Ryan Holiday and his recent work “Trust Me I’m Lying” to try and tread back to common ground.

“It’s awesome that he secured that $500,00 advance”  

This time he straight cackled.

I blushed and sank deeper into disgrace than I thought was possible. The man had literally written the book on Fake News (before it was cool) and I had still fallen for the obvious bait. No, this was not going great. There was no joking. No inappropriate comments. Not a giggle in sight. Just the joke sitting in front of him.

Tucker: “What do you want to do man? You have clearly some coding skill, why don’t you capitalize on that”   

“Well, I actually got my friends to…”

Tucker: “HOLY SHIT, YOU DIDN’T EVEN MAKE THE TIMELINE”

Crushed. Cleaved. Utterly Dismantled. The sickening part is that I had considered that the coding may have specifically been what he was interested in and yet I neglected to share that aspect. I struggled to my feet and attempted to salvage myself from the shame.

“I could still work on those E-cards for you”

A look of surprise and contempt.

Tucker: “You don’t work for me” he said savagely

A punch straight to what remained of my gut.

Tucker visibly relaxed and straightened himself.

Tucker: “If you want to go the comedy route, you gotta understand it’s very complicated and hard to pull off. There’s no pretending. You Can’t Fake Funny”

You Can’t Fake Funny. At that my ego bristled. For the first time in forty minutes, I felt a vestige of the actual willpower that had brought me there to begin with. I wasn’t faking it. I had spent a third of my life making people laugh and I had the receipts & reputation to show for it. I wasn’t a phony. A frog facing a fog beast perhaps but I had never been fake. I was as serious as a stroke. I threw the only blow I had in exasperation.

“Actually, I write a ton dude, that’s why I set up my own site.”

Tucker: Here let me see your page

Wordlessly, I pulled up my site.

Here’s where it got scary. He read through my “strongest” material in maybe a minute flat. I wasn’t even alarmed at the lack of response. Maybe disheartened but not alarmed. The speed, however, the speed terrified me. It was maybe the second or third time in my life that someone was a faster reader than me (Taylor being one of them), and definitely the first I had been dwarfed so totally. That’s when I knew I was fucking washed.

“I Lost”

At this point another familiar face appeared. Nils Parker. Tucker’s editor and partner in crime. I had done my dues on his work and was duly impressed. My entire body was dull at this point, but I still took the point to stammer a muted hello. Tucker took the opportunity. There was nothing left to discuss. He stood with my shattered pride beneath him.

Tucker: “Wellllll, we gotta get out of here”

“Wait”

I had a million things to say. Nothing of note came to mind. Except one resolution.

“Can I get a picture” I asked ashamed quietly.

Tucker stared at me with a distinct disgust and said with absolute annoyance.

“Sure”

Pain

Whelp! Time to go home and nap.

When I got up my roommates asked me how it went.

And I felt…. relieved. Resolved for sure. Of course, it was never going to be that easy. Plan B it was.

“Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

               I don’t want to bore y’all more than I already have (that comes later) but here’s the basic jist.

I wrote a very long piece detailing my goals, my journey, and my abilities.

I researched, read, and repetitioned myself into oblivion.

I looked into his Network and discovered his tribe.

I found one of my own.

I had another four years of dedicated practice with performance, photography, prose, and physical activities.

I worked my little booty off in the hospitality industry learning security, serving, supervision, and Startending.

I lost my site but signed up for six separate apps.

I tripled down on training. Endlessly in any avenue that would present itself.

I grasped all my basic abilities at twenty six.

I quit actively writing for six years and semi-retired to focus on capitalism, being hot, and finding a partner.

I found her.

I’m back on my bullshit.

Like I said, it’s been eleven years since that fateful coffee, and so much has changed since for better or worse, internally and externally. But I still love the game as much as I did when I was sixteen. And I’m still resolved to get paid from writing. But I want to do it the right way. And I learned that the journey to professionalism was clearly more important than destination.

I’m still an amateur in the sense that I have to make a dime for anything I’ve ever written. But that is the least of my concerns at this point. I know I can and more importantly that I will. If my Tucker talk taught me one thing, it’s preparation over destination. I can and I will get into the exact mechanics of my maturing but that’s a premium and y’all might have to pay a penny for that.

I hold absolutely nothing against Mr. Max. If anything I hold him in the highest of regards. I’m not the only one that did some serious evolving. Most of the people that remember him from the peak of his popularity in the fratire sphere, and little else. He actually and obviously still actively posts on his personal site. I could go eons into the lore but again, I don’t want to bore y’all. He tells his tales much more efficiently than I ever could. Out of the plethora of prominent figures from his era, he is among the only that retains any sort of relevance and the growth he’s made is absolutely astounding. I still look up to him as a big brother and look forward to seeing him in person again one day to thank him profusely for the free knowledge, and the reality check I promptly cashed.

Without meeting Tucker Max, I still would have been unaware of my idiocy. He was the first beef gate (“you can go wherever you want…but if you try to go out of order, the game will kill you”) I had ever encountered and I’m glad I did so early in my journey. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a dumbass but I’m a diligent one. And skilled, nonetheless. The training continues, and if anything, I’m just regaining my rhythm. But I promise one thing. I’m never going to quit writing again. And I’m going to prove I’m a professional before I claim it. I owe it to myself, my audience, and of course my Mentor.

[quadquest64]

Life’s a Bitch but Death’s a Cunt

Life’s a bitch but death is a cunt. I just made that up. I wish I had something better to pull out of the ole grab bag-o-quips, but I don’t. Death is stupid, so I have nothing clever to say about it.

Thousands of people die every day. Everyone who just read this sentence will eventually die, including myself. It’s a natural conclusion to everyone’s life that still generates unnatural amounts of grief to those still living. Death is practically uncontrollable, entirely unavoidable, yet still downright devastating. If that isn’t dumb, then I don’t know what is.  

It’s been a year since my Mother passed away. In that year, I’ve seen death touch the majority of those I know whether directly or by proxy. Each time I never know what to do or say. Barring commentary that is casual, dissonant, or detached in nature, I’m not well versed in discussing death. That goes doubly in terms of offering comfort. Good with words as I may be, I’m not yet capable of conjuring a combination that can alleviate that type of agony. On occasion, I manage to pull power out of prose but mine can’t dent death.

That’s a large part of the reason death is so shitty. All the resources  we manage to gain throughout life are often rendered utterly useless by the reaper, reducing even the mightiest of us into a state more helpless than Michigan. Every single one would give everything we own to stop the loss of a loved one, including our own lives, and yet it’s rare to even be afforded the opportunity. That realization is enough to make anyone feel helpless.

My death doesn’t scare me. I find it a waste of energy to concern myself with something I can neither avoid, or control. Death doesn’t scare me but more than a few things do. Lacking the power to protect and provide for those who do the same for me. Living the little time I have in this world according to the will of others. Going through an insignificant life without accomplishing anything of significance to the lives of others. Those things unsettle me in way the mediation of my demise has never managed to. Those things scare me shitless.    

My Mom’s death left a very sour taste in my mouth since I was too weak to do anything about it. I lacked the power, the resources, and the ability to ease the suffering of the woman who raised me. That’s a thought that taunts me on a daily basis. But it’s also the thought that has become the daily basis for my motivation.

I can’t control how I die, but I can damn well control how I live. And I never again want to live in a position where I find myself endlessly pondering whether I could have protected, or prevented a loved one from suffering if I had the power. I merely resolve to earn that position of power, and ask that question afterward. Since my Mom died before I could become a great man, I’ve simply decided to become one so great that she’ll hear my name in the heavens.

It may take two years. It may take ten. It may take twenty. But I swore on my Mother’s grave that I would not stop striving until I am strong. And if I die in pursuit of that magnificence, then that’s fine. Meeting the maker in pursuit of mastery is a million times preferable than meeting him after the end of a mediocre life.

To everyone who has lost someone recently, I’m sorry. I’m sorry it sucks so bad. I’m sorry the best I can do while you are in pain is post silly jokes. I’m sorry the best you can do is wait for time to heal the wound in your heart before it infects your soul. Death is awful, agonizing, and so fucking stupid. But it does get better. Slowly and painfully, but surely. And a sure way to get through that pain is to remember that the dead only truly die when they are forgotten.

So remember. Remember what the gifts they gave you while they were living, and let them guide you towards your goals. Remember the fire of their will and let it burn within your own. Remember why you loved them, let that be the light to your life and pray you can be that same light to someone when your time on the planet has passed.

Life’s a bitch, but she’s a beautiful one. Enjoy her as much as you can.  

http://quadquest64.tumblr.com/post/119893998867/my-mother-passed-away-last-week

[quadquest64]

My Mother Passed Away Last Week

I wrote this a week after my Mommy died last year.

I feel much better now.

      I have no mouth and I must scream. This is precisely the way I’ve felt in the past week since my Mom died. When it comes to emotional expression I am a stunted man. Some of you probably think this is a well-kept façade. I can completely assure you that it is not. When I got the news I cried for about fifteen minutes, wiped up, went straight to my computer, and wrote stone-faced for thirty. Tears do not come easily to me. Words do.

      I don’t believe myself to be particularly emotionally unhealthy but I’m absolutely aware it seems as such. The manner in which I process emotions  is not something a regular human would consider normal. Emotions cause most people to get hotter and express, whereas mine cause me to get colder and compress. The stronger the feeling, the more numb I go. I understand that this is alien to most of you, but it’s a nifty defense mechanism that I’ve picked up over the years to assure that I could mentally  operate and physically function under any hostile conditions. An anti-panic button if you would.

     You may see this as a ruthless trait to cultivate and rightfully so. I grew up in a ruthless environment and adapted ruthless traits to succeed. I still have feelings in this state, and I don’t ignore them. That’d be silly. The easiest way to be conquered by your emotions is to pretend like they don’t exist. I fully acknowledge their presence, I just don’t let them cloud my judgment or impede my actions.  I’d rather feel numb, and deal with my sentiments on my own terms than be crippled by sensations stress, grief, or failure. Although any adverse emotions are submerged in ice, a torrent of them still dully  throb deep underneath with the intensity of an inactive volcano itching to erupt. The pain is still entirely present while I’m completely capable of carrying on with my routines.

      It’s because of this that I was able to function throughout the rest of the weekend without any obvious outward indicator anything was amiss. It’s because of this that the vast majority of you did not, and would not have recognized something was off unless I wanted you to. And it’s because of this that I’ve kept to my quarters, evading the public (particularly my friends). I didn’t want to deal with anyone else’s emotions before I came to terms with my own.

      Most of you immediately felt sorry for me as soon as you read the title of this piece. Many of you will feel the immediate urge to express this emotion to me. I pray none of you will be ignorant  enough to do. This is specifically the reason I’ve spent this week avoiding interacting with others. At times, I’m notoriously volatile but I’m particularly dangerous in this state. Empty emotion is something I hold in strong disregard and I do not take to it kindly when directed my way. I can handle my grief but I have heavy doubt about managing the malice. My spite is an explosive barrel with a loose cap ready to denote and I’d readily tear apart anyone who set it off accidentally or otherwise. And much as I hate to admit it, I’d enjoy every second.

      I completely understand that most people in the world require comfort when something significantly shitty happens to them. At times I may be a monster but I’m still a human. I do not, and will not ever begrudge anyone for seeking this comfort, or for expressing their pain. People need sorry, comfort, and emotional expression. It’s how we survive as society. If I was a normal person, I’d probably seek it as well. But I’m not. Getting those things from all but a handful would only cause me serious discomfort. If we’re close, already knew that, even if you don’t understand the reasoning. And if you didn’t, then you are surely among those I’d instinctively reject emotions from.

      I don’t want “I’m sorry”. I don’t want “Are you okay?” I don’t want “I’m here for you if you need to talk”.  I don’t want sympathy. I shed from sympathy like a vampire sheds from the sun. Sorry doesn’t do anything for me. It’s just an hollow gesture seen as an obligated attempt to pat me on the back before continuing about your day. If you ask me if I’m okay, I’ll simply tell you I’m fine while silently spiting you because the answer to your inquiry is as obvious as your simple sentiments. It’d be ridiculous for people to think I’d speak to them about the most significant emotional event in my life if I’ve never even sought them out with the most rudimentary.

      The vast majority of you care about my Mom passing because you care about me as an acquaintance if not a friend. The death of my Mother is probably nothing to you but a knee-jerk reaction that says “Oh, time to care about Quado”.  You sympathize with me, but you do not empathize.  Sympathy and empathy are similar but as different as dusk and dawn. Sympathy is feeling sad for someone without explicitly understanding what they are feeling or why. Sympathy is merely the recognition that I’m in pain and saying “That sucks, bro” whereas empathy is actually sharing those feelings, even if only briefly. Sympathy is simply acknowledgement whereas empathy is understanding.  Sympathy without empathy is completely empty in my eyes.

      Words have weight, and a simple sorry is light because it’s empty. Sorry can suck a dick if you don’t understand what you are sorry about. It’s not your fault if you don’t. A few of you know a little about my family life, more of you know less. It’s not something I voluntarily speak of. Sharing stories about my personal life can do little to aid me but much to ail me. Sympathy is stupid but empathy is terrifying; understanding something allows you to exploit it. Understanding my feelings and motives merely give people leeway abuses the information. I hold my emotional cards close to the chest, and my relationship with my Mother was one that was nearest to my heart. Now it’s gone, I find no qualm with sharing her significance.

      I’m not going to make multiple public sentiments expressing my grief or how much she meant to me. For my personality, it’s entirely pointless. I see it as empty shouts to uncaring ears. It doesn’t do anything for me. Normal people need expression. Normal people need comfort. Normal people need therapy. Normal people need an outlet, I just need to write. That is my expression. That is my comfort. That is my therapy. Writing is indefinitely more potent to me than a pound of pills or a lake of liquor.

      My Mother deserves more than this stupid fucking article or any other shitty post I could construct. She deserves better but this is the best that I got. This is the best I can give to the woman who gave me birth and raised me within the apex of her ability. The most honest manner of emotional manifestation I can muster. My “ I’m sorry your son is a robot Felicia, but hey here’s a nice article paying you tribute as a frail attempt to make up for the fact that he’s incapable of expressing proper grievance to the woman who raised him. If it gives you solace, writing this hurts. Writing this fucking hurts worse than anything else I’ve felt since the day you died and rightfully so because the words I weave are the most authentic way I have to explain how much you meant to me. Mom, I don’t have a mouth because I sewed it shut a long time ago, but I do have a pen which now leaks with the ink and profuse pain flowing in my veins.”

      If you still care, feel free to continue. And thank you for being there for me. Thank you for listening.

                                                                    Momma’s Man

      My Mom’s death impacted me but it didn’t really surprise me. The chance that my Mom may die has been a distinct possibility for the last six years. Knowing something like this certainly doesn’t make you any less devastated when it comes to pass but it makes you far more prepared.

      My Mother and I never had a modern progressive parent/child relationship. We were different in almost every way you could possibly imagine. There was a generational gap, a cultural gap, differing religious philosophies, contrasting emotional outputs, and she’d always buy awful flavors of ice cream. We argued a lot, and I’d make it a point to never share any information with her that I didn’t want eventually flying back in my face.

      But we did love each other. Very much so. Whatever her minor shortcomings, they were insignificant in the fact that she always did her best to take care of me. While I may have begrudged her for many slights against me, I never hated her, and I always knew I was going repay the favor by taking care of her as soon as I was able. It may not show, but I’ve always been a Momma’s boy. And she always loved me right back.

     The wham moment came when I was seventeen, and she had her first stroke. That caught me by surprise but not much. She was a single parent taking care of three kids with scare assistance and a damn work horse. Twelve hour shifts as a nurse, minimum five days a week, 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. as long as I can remember. She never took a vacation. Stress, work, a less than stellar diet, high blood pressure, and of course three selfish kids. No, a stroke wasn’t all too surprising. What downright shocked me was when she never really bounced back from it.

      My Mom was like a Lioness. I know that’s a trite simile, but it’s none the less an accurate one. I’m pretty sure that’s where I inherit my inherent viciousness. At times she was a straight beast. Fierce. Uncompromising. Unreasonable.  And oh so strong. I’d never known her to show any weakness. I didn’t think she was invincible but I had no evidence to support that she wasn’t. When she had her stroke, I thought it’d slow her down for a few months, and then she’d be ready to roar in no time. I slowly realized this was not the case. Everything just kept steadily rolling downhill.

      Her condition just kept getting worse. Less than a year after her stroke, she’d essentially stopped working all together. My siblings were in no position to assist us, so the task of responsibility fell to me. A lot of weight upon my shoulders and I accepted that burden. But I did I enjoy it? No. It’s like being shackled. Shackled with the knowledge that you are essentially solely responsible for the well-being of your entire family because you are the best equipped to do so while being the least prepared. I was fucking seventeen. My senior year was the most stressful period of time I’ve ever had and hope to in my life. While my friends were worried about prom, I was worried about the lights. While my friends were applying for college, I was applying for Section 8. My greatest graduation gift was getting to go to boot camp.

      If you were close to me then, you probably saw hints of what I was going through even if I never openly talked about it. I tried to kept this side of my life from everyone and I still do to this day. I find it embarrassing. There is no logical reason for me to feel embarrassed because my Mother was sick, and I couldn’t support my family at seventeen. There is no logical reason to feel this way at twenty three or twenty eight for that matter. But since when are emotions logical? I was embarrassed because I felt ashamed of myself.

       Let me be frank here. I hate being seen as weak because I am not. I am smart, capable, strong, and I’ve developed into quite a slimy little strategist. I still have much, much, much, much room for improvement but I’m still pretty fucking proficient at combining these qualities for to achieve my goals. But how do you figure I felt at this point in my life living in a city where the median income is past six figures? I’ll tell you how I felt. I felt like a nigger.

      I’m not playing the race card, I’m just telling the truth. Honestly, I’ve never let my ethnicity be a factor in any my decisions including my personality, friends, or culture but I was never been ignorant to my socio-economic status as a poor black boy in a rich white town. People would look down on me, and they would do so frequently. Beneath my indifference, it hurt every time. Because while I was smart, capable, strong, and a slimy little strategist, I was still a powerless little boy unable to achieve his goals or stop his Mother from suffering. It hurt because while I was strong, I couldn’t really prove it. And as the old saying goes “If it looks like a nigger, makes nigger money, and plays ball like a nigger, it might be time to fetch the noose.” While I cognitively knew they were wrong about who I was, it still felt like they were completely right. And it felt awful. It’s wasn’t at all logical. But since when are emotions logical?

      My friends NEVER treated me as such because they acknowledge my ability instead of trivial things like income or neighborhood. If I felt like someone my age was looking down on me, I was 100% capable of utterly destroying them. And I knew that in the long run, I’d win. Fuck a peer. Most of those peons peaked in High School. But adults were different. It was always somehow worse when it was adults. I was still in that phase of my life where I thought adults were mostly infallible benevolent beings with the primarily perfect judgment to match. So when their judgment of me was as ignorant as someone my own age, I didn’t ever really fight their perception. I took the title with the humility of a humbled dog while coolly feeling the feral fury of a whipped wolf.    

      I’m not telling you this because I want your pity. I’m telling you this so you understand my motives. Why I do the things I do. Why I say the things I say, act the way I act, think the way I think, and process emotions the way I process emotions. It’s only through this understanding that we can achieve empathy. And I want you to emphasize with the fact that I’ve always sought strength as not only a means for taking care of my loved ones but to utterly spite anyone who ever looked down on me in the past based on factors I couldn’t control. I’ve always wanted tangible proofs of power that properly displayed the potency of my potential. And while the power of love is swell and all, I’ve found that personally the power of spite is a much better motivator.

      I am not a nice man. I am a malicious one. And I’ve always wanted to be a monster of my own making rather than the one that I felt I was made out to be. I’ve always yearned, learned, and trained towards the day I’d be able to stroll up to those who shunned me, not as an equal but as a superior, spit in their face, and scream “KNEEL BEFORE MY TRUE TERROR, YE BASTARDS.” I’ve always wanted to go from nobody to nightmare, and I always knew that I had the potential to do so. Walter White would understand.

      That’s why I’m so detached in the way I handle…..well pretty much everything. If y’all ever wondered the trick to complete emotional nonchalance, the answer is an elementary three step process.

Keep insanity at bay by becoming insanely calm. Carry on with your daily routine while experiencing constant pressure via weight of your world on your shoulders. Next to the gravity of this stress, everything else becomes light by comparison.

Hide that inner angst deep, deep, deep within from almost everyone you encounter to avoid suspicion while still keeping it close enough to the surface to taste. (Recommended heavy usage of stoicism, snark, or sarcasm.)

Express that pain through a productive medium of your choice. (Frequent jokes about an imaginary ex)

      It’s a simple survival mechanism. That’s why being poor with a sick Mama was hard but I never really tripped about it. My good friends, emotional dissonance and logic. I understood  it could have been so much worse. Millions of people in this world have had to step up to the plate and be an adult when they weren’t ready. I’m not taking away from what I’ve gone through, but I am acknowledging it would have been significantly more difficult if I had a major disease, a child, or a physical handicap.

      The money thing never really bothered me because I was never a high maintenance spender to begin with. It’s important to note that while I grew up in the suburbs, I was raised in the low income area of East Dallas. What passes for poor in my hometown is considered opulent in the streets I’m from. A lack of money was the cause of a lot of my issues but obtaining an abundance of it was never really one of my immediate goals. I’ve always known that that’d come to me eventually. My immediate goal was power. Money is not power. Money is a tool of the powerful. Real power comes from within. Intelligence, strength, skill, empathy, influence, resources, ability, and willpower. I knew I had power, and unlike most kids my age, I knew exactly where mine laid.

      Many of you have borne witness to this over the years. My mind. My prose. My jokes. You’ve seen the evidence of these  talents and even if you don’t agree with my stances or enjoy my styles, I don’t think a lot of you can really deny my potential for professionalism within comedy or writing. I recognized this early one, and dedicated myself to honing the hell out of my flairs until they shone like a spit-shine.

      That’s why I was so excited about boot camp. Being a Marine would give me the experience, the support, and the resources to find the strength I had so desperately craved. Fuck  a Dad if you got Uncle Sam. I chose the reserves instead of active duty so I had time to write, perform,  and learn skills to aid me in finding the power I knew I was capable of possessing. And, to be perfectly honest, it was going to be really nice not to have to worry about how I was going to eat every day.

      When I came back from boot camp, I was homeless. That sucked. Honestly in retrospect it was one of the most awful moments of my life. A little because you know, the whole “Oh, wow, I no longer have a home” thing but mainly because it annihilated any hope my Mom would be survive financially on her own.

      When I finished my MOS school and came back to Dallas permanently , I had to reevaluate my tactics. I had zero resources. All of my worldly possessions could be packed into two sea-bags. At that point, my license was suspended. No car. No home. Nothing. Nothing but an unhealthy Mother, and a helpful sister just as prone to the struggle as myself.

      Once again, I’m not telling you this for pity. I’m telling you so you’ll understand my predicament. This was a decisive splitting point where I had to make  the crucial decision to continue with comedy on the gamble that I’d be successful, or immediately forsake everything for a significantly safer career that would immediately pay me well enough to handle family matters while completely restricting my freedom until further notice.

      I could have and could still find any such career with relative ease. I’m nowhere near genius, but as we have covered, I’m a crafty mother fucker.  I know how to put myself into positions in upper echelons, and display the qualities needed to succeed in whichever system I placed myself on. I had some pretty solid options that required no degree. By the time I was twenty one, I could have been making close to thirty thousand a year, and if I had stayed within the same field it would have likely doubled by the time I was twenty five. This is not a bluff. This is not a brag. This is the truth. I have the  at times unsettling capacity to be extremely manipulative, ruthless, and resourceful. If I had focused my complete attention on a different career, I would have succeeded. But I chose to focus on my writing.

      I made that decision because I’m selfish. Because I love comedy, writing and I know the combination of those two is what will make me notorious one day. Because I had faith that I’d be able to achieve this in time to take care of my Mother, eliminating the need to engage in career I didn’t care for. Because I had constantly suffered  as a result of the irresponsible, selfish decisions many of my family members made over the years and I was damned if I was going to sacrifice my ambitions to shore up the consequences of their stupidity. Because I felt like I had been cheated of my teenage years, and I was going to be damned if I was going to be cheated out of my passion. The pen is my birthright and I’d be damned if I neglected it for the promise of a paycheck.

      I’m selfish, and prideful but my Mom never begrudged me for this. This is highly significant to me because it highlights we understood each despite our differences. She knew me well enough to know that I never do anything pointlessly. I’m sure that she didn’t particularly agree with my methods or understand my overall plan but she never once questioned my intentions of fully taking care of her. This was always the trend with her, and I loved her for it.  

     This is in stark contrast to many of my other family members, extended or otherwise. My Mom and I have both gotten a lot a shit for my “behavior” over the years.  What probably seemed like a lack of care on my part combined with an excess of indulgence. To outsider eyes, it looked like I was neglecting my Mom. Bullshit. Every move I’ve made over the last six years has been for the express purpose of taking care of her. It looked like I was running away from my problems. I was running but not away from my task. I shed responsibility temporary until I could find the permanent solution. The path I take is not easy, and additional responsibilities only serve to slow me down. I just needed a few years to get stronger on my own terms,  and then I’d be good to take care of everything else.

      The last time I saw my Mom in person, it was four years ago. It was on her way to the airport to fly out to Nigeria so her family could take care of her. My sister was crying. I wasn’t. Thank God my Mom wasn’t either, otherwise I might have been. I didn’t cry because I had 100% percent faith in the fact I’d see her again, and when I did everything would be fine. I promised myself that the next time I saw my Mom, I buy her an apartment, a car, and anything else she needed to live out the rest of her life in peace. I saw her off and I got to work.

      And that’s just this six year shuffle has been. A very, very, very long run where the tasks of my goals try to outpace the burden of my responsibilities. I wasn’t really in the position to focus completely on comedy, what with the whole poverty thing, so I started taking classes instead. I never really wanted to go to  college. If I had my way I would have forgone it and immediately devoted 100% of my attention into the industry. I went to college not because my objectives required it, but because I wanted to give myself more options. I’m a poor, young, black male without any parental support. I was not about to let a lack of degree be another debilitating factor when it could have easily been a playing card. Four years was an investment for a short term but a spit in the bucket in the long run.

     Let’s fast forward past all the boring struggle shit about four years later to the now. Long story short, I have survived. To be accurate, I haven’t just survived.  I’ve thrived. I’ve done really, really, really well for myself by anyone’s standards but my own. I recently graduated, and while it truly wasn’t a big deal, the degree is still a major stepping stone. I shouldn’t ever have to use to it but it’s there, assuring me if shit really goes wrong, I have somewhat of job security safety net.

      Even though I’m now more equipped than I’ve ever been in at point to take care of myself, I’m STILL so very, very, very far away from anything that resembles enough power or resources to take care of anyone else. But I’m close. So much closer than I ever was. I spend six years relentlessly running to get stronger, took a break to catch a breath, and it all shatters in front of me.

      The last four years were hard for me but I’m sure it was much worse for my Mother. While was learning to flourish, growing stronger through harsh circumstances, she was slowly withering. My situation has slowly improved but her health has done nothing but deteriorate. I was well aware of this, but I’ve never panicked. That would defeat the point of my cold switch. I’ve stayed calm, and stayed my course. Everything would be fine. I had to keep going, going, going, going, going, going and it’d get better as long as I got stronger. And I have gotten strong. Oh so strong just like Mama. But hey, guess what. It wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough to keep my Mother from dying.

Remember guys. No sympathy. No sorry. Only understanding.

Understand that I feel like I wasn’t enough to keep the woman I’ve loved for the longest from dying.

      I do stupid things but I am not a stupid man. I know such feelings are folly. I know this is nonsense. I know I’m a boy that’s been faced with a man’s burden, scarcely able to take care of myself let alone someone else. I realize that I was not in a position where I could be expected to succeed in such a short period, so failure shouldn’t be too surprising. I realize even if I had gone a different  route, there is no guarantee that I would have been able to change anything, only the guarantee that I would not possess the abilities, network, or knowledge I currently do. I should not rationally feel this way. I know that better than any of you. But since when are emotions logical?  

      Most people couldn’t have gotten as far as me but there are many who could have gotten much further much faster. It’s true that I never made any crippling errors that impeded my progress but it’s also true there were many moves I could have made to streamline my progression. I killed the kid in me a long ago, but I’m still a young man regardless. Still completely prone to folly, emotional whims, and questionable decisions. I’ve fucked up a lot. As much you can expect of any person in their twenties. But as we all already know, I’m not normal. So it’s stupid to hold myself to those same standards. I’ll always feel as though I could have done better. And I’ll always question if I could have somehow averted the death of my Mother if I had just stopped fucking around with the dick jokes, put away the pen, spent a little less time partying and focused my attention on milking some simple cash cow before butchering the beef to feed my family.

      Okay, now you can sympathize. Because if you don’t understand by this point you’re a sociopath and you never will. Now you can feel sorry for the fact that my Mom died two weeks after I graduated college. Now you can understand how I feel knowing my Mommy died with the knowledge that her baby boy was doing fine but without any of her children available to hold her and whisper “I love you” a few more times as she passed away. Now you can feel sorry about the fact that Mom will never meet my wife. Or my kids. Or see the house I was going to buy her. I think y’all get it now.

      As tempted as I am to end this on that last paragraph, it won’t do. Bitter as I am, you don’t deserve that, and neither does the memory of my Mom. Truth is that I’m in a lot of pain right now, and it’s going to be that way for a long time. Truth is most of you won’t be able to really alleviate that pain even though I know all of you will be willing to listen if I ever want to talk, and I deeply appreciate that sentiment. Truth is while I’m not really okay, I am as functioning as well as you can expect anyone to be that just experienced the death of their parent. I’m not going to be okay for a long time. Truth is that I’m going to suffer in silence because that’s the way I trained myself to react. Truth is I loved my Mom very much, and I’m going to do my best to mask my pain publicly because any other reaction would make me uncomfortable. Truth is that I’ll be fine eventually because but while this will always be a defining moment in my life, I won’t let it define the rest of mine. The death of my Mother has left a scar upon my soul but the memory of her loss will always fuel my actions.

      My Mother is at her well-earned peace. Now I have to find where mine lays. She was the light upon my road, and while I’m still treading my path it’s gotten a bit dark. I don’t have a clear purpose for success anymore, so I have to find another one. I don’t want any of you to treat me differently throughout this process. That’d defeat my whole point. I just wanted y’all to get a good idea of what I’m going through in case I seem a bit forlorn or testy. And why I’ll make the most elaborate jack off motion on the planet if anyone asks me what’s wrong.

                                                   Proverbs 23:25

                                    “May she who gave you birth be happy.”

                                                    I love you, Mom.