Riot Police

If I were killed by the cops there would be a riot. Like a big riot. East Liberty would be filled with people from all over the city, protesting my unlawful murder. Even Jewhill would have a vigil. Big impact. Mike might stop making drinks and start questioning the Mayor when he walks into Cappy’s next time. The city would lose its collective bargaining agreement with civility and storm a place or two. I mean they killed Julian Hicks!

What have I ever done to anyone? Even the Chief of Police would make a statement:

“This young man was a model citizen. He patiently waited for my office to fix his issues with McGann and Chester’s thievery over the course of a month. His mother should be given a medal, not a son full of bullets...”

...or something to that affect.

Chelsea and Theo would do a dab in front of the police station next to Katie blasting “Waltz Me to the Grave”. Chelsea Leber would turn Pheonix on they bitch ass, fly straight to Peduto’s place and burn it to ashes. The city would be a whole mess if the police killed me. What the fuck for?


First of all, good luck painting me as a criminal. Go to my Twitter and the bio is “King Lesbian”. For ten straight years my tweets will show hilarious inside jokes, weird black boy street wisdom and me obsessing over hoes. Maybe the corrupt Popo can say I raped a bitch and shot me fleeing the scene. I really have nothing on me.


If they slide over to my Instagram then I might start to look a little racey. My bio there is “400 Years of Slavery Coming Home to Roost”. A little Malcolm X-y pre Mecca, don’t you think? I have a picture of me shooting a shotgun (poorly, I’ll add) in a post from five years ago. A casual observer, however, might miss that pic for my latest which is me holding a dog in my arms like we just eloped or something.


If a dirty pig shot me for being the black Mr. Rogers then the whole neighborhood would squad up. I got hitters all over the city ready to ride for my corpse. Imagine the pogo stick damage done to police vehicles over the course of a trial/investigation. And when the verdict for my killers comes back “Justifiable” or “Not Guilty”… sheeeeeiiit… Then it’s on-on.


The whole city will burn. Instagram is gonna be one giant middle finger compilation of my greatest selfies and tagged photos. All my friends and extended family will band together under the legacy I’ve built with them, share stories. My tragedy will bond all those amazing yet separate individuals into something greater then I could ever do alive. My nigga Hongching will take pics of the protests and market the whole thing. I’ll spark a revolution with my blood.


















Lolol jk. Niggas ain’t gone do shit.

11.14.19

In this hotel room in... Blountville, Tennessee I am laying on a bed. Russ is on the bed to my left and Tone on that WEAK Ass rollaway bed to my right. Tomorrow we finish the last half of the drive to Pittsburgh from Wetumpka, Alabama. That means going back to the many things I don't want to return to. In Pittsburgh my life sucks. On the road my life sucks less, that's even if it's a school tour throughout whogivesafuck, america.

I can feel dreds on my forehead and parts of my neck now. They've already started to make me believe someone was next to me. Now I think something foreign is on my temple, neck or forehead. Nope. Just dead hair freestyling into this mess-do. It'll help in the winter that's to come. From now on I'm riding the bus.

Back on the bus, back in the cold, back to the hibachi grill and back to being a nothing. It's to the point where I'm not sure exactly what I hate about my life. In 14 hours I'll be able to figure it out. We SKKRRRT back to Pittsburgh where I'll have no money, one somewhat day to chill out and then go back to work. Back to that.

I don't really see hope in my future. Former President Jimmy Carter was hospitalized today. He had a successful stay in an Atlanta hospital for his brain surgery. He survived two cancers in his 95 years prior to this. This is President Carter addressing his church family.

"I obviously prayed about it. I didn't ask God to let me live, but I asked God to give me a proper attitude toward death."

I just put my head down. I want to tap into that feeling. I want to be okay with being nobody. I want to be okay with the death of my dreams. I want to be okay with the idea that I can just have a job. Fuck hope. This hotel room might be the height of my...whatever this is. This fantasy world I keep trying to create.

Get paid to be me.

I have to be okay with the idea that I won't ever get paid for fame. I'm not funny enough to be a comedian. I'm never going to be an actor OR lol a model lol My perspective is cool... Nakama... I have to be okay with maybe just being a cool coworker. Yeah. 'Julian is a cool guy to hang around. I tell Julian everything. He's like my therapist. He's so funny. I love him blahblahblah' 

I want to be okay with that being my legacy. Get a paying job and be an introverted, wise, perverted, Master Splinter, King of the Rats ass nigga. $50K max but maybe I get extra time off every year. Maybe I can work 9-5 and do theater part time, fuck a stewardess. I can have nights and weekends free to do Big Brother, Big Sister things, see Hongching more. Gain management skills and increase my salary. Work my way into a corporate lifestyle that suits me. Wear tailored suits and go to nice events. Find a chair, hang myself in my apartment. 

Jimmy Carter isn't afraid of death anymore. Jimmy finished his above quote saying:

"And I found that I was absolutely and completely at ease with death."

I don't want to die but I certainly don't want to die like this. Jimmy Carter might be completely at ease with death. He did become a fucking president after all. 

The Long Walk

Working is a great sin to my humanity. I should never work. Work kills my spirit. From the moment a person places my name on a schedule to be somewhere my stomach tightens. There I am, accountable and responsible, sweating and sad. 

I was fired from my sales job in 2017. I was given the “bad” news via phone on July 3rd. I was happy. I knew if I still had a job they’d have scheduled me for the 4th. I had a party to go to. The moment I was released from that call a weight was lifted from me. Finally I had free time. 

That feeling lasted for three weeks. Somehow in my infinite resourcefulness I had a job again. I still remember the first day, the bus ride downtown. For three weeks I had complete freedom. I stood on that bus in a deep depression. I was giving up one of my core values for the ability to eat, live and pay rent. 

Walking to the new job was killing my soul. I remember slowly merging with the Downtown Pittsburgh foot traffic wishing I would be swept away. I never wanted to work. Until that month I had no idea not working was an option. I remember standing in front of the big restaurant doors. Once I went inside my spirit was depleted. 

I had a depression walk just years earlier. I was walking late through Squirrel Hill. The long windy road that stretched its hands for a half a mile had no buildings to look at. Above and beside me were trees, dark and still, a compliment to the sparse amount of street lights. I knew exactly where I was going but I was still lost. 

The depression followed me all the way to... wherever I was walking to. At that time I was existing as a sales associate who made no sales. I was no older than 27, no younger than 25. I had more understanding of the wind than I had of myself. In the silence of the night and solitude of the walk there was nowhere to hide from my mind and all of its yearnings. 


Xpogo is the only gig I liked. Right now I should be practicing a welcome speech for a new gig I just got. This year I was not only given five months of complete freedom (thanks COVID) but also free money to float me. I was able to pay bills, buy food, expunge my personal debt and have unlimited free time. That period is ending though. The long walk continues. 

The Death Clause

It's 7:30 in the morning. I cracked my window to get a breeze. I've been up for about a half hour. Loki and Coke Dad are still up from last night. I'm jealous. I think about parallel of lives lived and those who chose to walk the righteous path. Sister Mamie Clemons was a pillar in the Christian community and lived to be 101. She probably got 8 hours of sleep every night and never even thought about blow. All in all none of that matters.

Death changes everything. Even now while I type I'm wrestling with myself on which words to choose. I'm going over the overall message in my head, the end result of these collective words and the order in which to say them. I'm writing with a goal in mind. A hunger for perfection eats at me to the point of sometimes stifling any progress at times.  On one hand I wanna get it right. On the other I think that nothing I do matters, I'm still going to die.

Watching older footage tricks me. In its grainy black and white, lack of high definition, I think that's how they saw the world. I have to remind myself that they saw life just as vibrantly as I'm viewing it today. They didn't walk around hoping God would fix their vision so they could see in 1080p. They loved those moments at the edge of time. Full of life. Then they died. 

My window is still open and no bugs have flown in. The breeze feels nice. The sights and sounds of sunrise make me feel like I live amongst magic. Moments like these help me forget about death. Living is my prescription to depression. Death itself is the ultimate downer. 

Thoughts of mortality gnaw at me. It also releases me from burdens. Every crime that was committed a century ago is long forgotten. Death is a clean slate. It takes all of the good, bad or indifferent and disperses it into nothingness. Thinking like this helps curb my anxieties. At the end of my life none of this will matter... Sure, I'll go to your fuckin party.

"YOLO." 

-Drake

The Death Clause is simple. Me and everyone I know, those I don't and those yet to come will all die. Striving for perfection is cool and all but even a perfect pirouette will be forgotten. Every single action will be lost in time. My mistakes won't make a difference and neither will my accomplishments. The Death Clause is definitive. No one escapes. 

I'm 33 now but I feel ancient, like I've lived ten simultaneous lives. I need more sleep, more vegetables and less smokey smoke. Or not. I mean, I'm gonna die anyway.

Birthdays

I'm looking at the clock. In about a minute or so it'll be November 10th, 2017. Right next to the clock is a television displaying an almost all black and white view of Ki Ramen. I'm in the basement with Kat signing papers to start work. It turns midnight. A little bit after that I say "Hey, it's my birthday." Kat says "Happy Birthday". I leave and probably get a ginger beer or something. I'm 31.

--

I'm waking up early af from our last day in California. It's already my birthday. I'll be in airports or on a plane for a majority of the day. This is the daycap to a long, annoying, almost sickening school tour. I don't think I've ever been so down in my life. After living with the TSA like Tom Hanks in "The Terminal", I finally make it back to the Pittsburgh.

Ashley won't text me or make time for me. Angelica invites me out. I sit with her while she hits on this nobody for an hour. I get in my Altima and drive home to drink a ginger beer or something. I'm probably crying. I'm 32.

--

The only rest day on the entire school tour is on Sunday, my birthday. "Rest" is debatable since we have to drive 4 hours from South Carolina to Macon, Georgia. I put on my headphones in the car, sit in the backseat and sip hot water. We finally get to the AirBNB, the same place we stayed earlier in the week. This time I got a room. I jerk off incessantly and smoke weed like it's my Bane oxygen tank. The following day will be the longest day of the tour. I'm 33.

Fuck birthdays.