The First Nigger

“6 feet, nigger.” I looked up to see an ogre-esqe white man with a medical mask on.

“What,” I asked. He continued.

“mumble mumble mumble what you are mumble…”

Again I asked, “What?!” I stared into his eyes with what felt like a blazing inferno. He didn’t flinch, didn’t move, just didn’t speak. That’s when I realized he was off his rocker.


The whole way home I recounted the experience and cracked up laughing. I couldn’t help myself. The whole scene was funny. And it happened in a store called Kuhn’s! I was in stitches. Hell, I still am.


While the nice lady was ringing out my items I saw him in the same isle putzing around. I looked at him and shook my head. I don’t know if what I did helped him understand what he did was wrong but it was better than the alternative. Someone else might’ve killed him.

Manifest Destiny

I woke up dreading the evening. I had been running ragged since the start of the month. It was the last day of it and the last event. A part of me was hoping it would get canceled. Still high from the night before I stumbled out of bed. My body was still stained with Sandcastle water. I walked around an unshowered mess.

My bank account mocked me from beyond my phone’s screen. Nothing was going to make the number higher. Not staring or hoping or praying. I definitely needed to stay home, indefinitely. Even at home, though, I needed to eat. I cracked open my fridge and saw nothing that would keep me alive. The half eaten pack of Hershey’s kisses would’ve only given me diabetes. I couldn’t have eaten popcorn all day and I only had two packs. I checked the account again…


Food may not be free but for now laundry was. Under normal circumstances I would have texted PA first. My laundry bag was filled and almost nothing wearable was clean. Dragging my bag across the lawn I took a second to bake in the free sun. It felt good. I walked into PaulieAnne’s house and went straight up the stairs to her room. She was on a conference call in her office. I loaded the clothes and left as quietly as I arrived. As I passed the living room I saw two people both staring at screens. I was in no mood to be social so I didn’t care.


Back at my place I was still dreading the night. Nothing bad was happening but something was happening at all. Bear was in town accompanied by her long-time (for me, anyway) boyfriend. I hadn’t seen Bear in probably seven years. My desire hadn’t waned in the least. My biggest issues were fighting the urge to spend my last sheckles on alcohol and not hitting on her. I was more concerned about the later.

My goal for today was to advance in the playoffs and mentally prepare for more socialization. I was having a gay ole time in 2K. The games were competitive and required me to step my focus up. Through fatigue and grumpiness I still managed to pull out victories from deep holes and beat Lamelo’s bitch ass Charlotte team to go to the Finals.

That’s where the happiness ended. The night before I puffed the last flower that I owned. It was a lackluster affair. To me it seemed appropriate. After four years of smoking weed consistently I shouldn’t have expected a grandiose exit. I should’ve been happy to be alive. Smoking was draining me of my energy and only leaving me slightly euphoric at times. The return seemed worth the risk until there was no more puff left. Addiction was playing tricks on me and I was allowing it.


Today, however, there was no room in the inn. At 2am I was scraping the sides of a canister, polishing off the last of my happy juice. The high was just as all the others only I was exhausted. I ritually masturbated and unceremoniously fell right asleep. I knew even before I woke up that I was getting my hours. My dreams were plentiful.


Being awake was not as fun. Even winning in 2K seemed like work. Everything seemed like work. I was so tired I didn’t stretch. All I wanted to do was nothing for the foreseeable future and watch money fall into my lap. My mood was not conducive to meeting new or old people. Bear and her boyfriend were going to get a dilapidated Julian. I felt bad and it hadn’t even happened yet.

I was hoping that something would happen though. Something that could take me away from having to go. I felt bad for even wanting that. The hours ticked past, leaning closer to the time I’d have to catch the bus. Not a second went by that I felt more prepared than the last. I chugged a bunch of water and felt the need to release my bowels. I finished, went to turn a corner and BAM! My toe scraped the corner of a wall.

I went to the check the damage on the wall but didn’t get that far. My toe hurt a little but the cut looked gnarly. Then it started bleeding. And bleeding… and bleeding. My inexperience led me to run cold water over the wound. I figured that at some point it would stop. The more water I ran over the toe the more red my bathroom became. The blood wasn’t stopping but spreading. After five minutes I knew I had to switch it up.


Guilt… I mean… blood was spilling down my foot. Somewhere in the back of my head I thought ‘I manifested this’. I grabbed a rag and applied pressure to the toe and hopped on one foot to the other room. “Hey Google, how do you stop a wound from bleeding?” I hopped to the freezer and wrapped ice cubes in a paper towel with one hand while squeezing the life out of my toe with the other. The paper towel ice pack went from white to blood red in seconds.

‘I totally manifested this’…

The blood… I mean… guilt crept over my body as I hopped over to my phone. My toe had been bleeding for a solid ten minutes before my Hippocratic acrobatics let me feel secure enough to do anything else. Even then I had to use my voice. “Hey Google, call Bear.”

‘I definitely manifested this’… I canceled, halting a seven year meeting in its tracks. Bleeding through the rag, I was hoping she’d not have a boyfriend by then. I called my mom who, having COVID, still listened to me and gave great advice. We hung up then I called my surrogate mother, PaulieAnne. I asked PA for a band-aid after telling her what I had done. Despite my mother suggesting that PA come to me (steep steps and one badly bleeding foot), I slapped on a crappy sock, shoved it into a shoe, and hobbled down the steps and out the door.

‘I for sure manifested this’

I hadn’t seen PaulieAnne in what felt like weeks. The last few text messages to her weren’t replied to. One was a request and after that I’m not sure. I was beginning to think I had worn out my welcome. I hadn’t seen her or the kids in forever. Every time I reached out it was to ask her for something. Here I was again, this time it was more life-and-death than “Can I use the car for some fuck shit”. When I opened my door she was already on the porch.


I sprinted on one and a half legs to her porch and through the door. I slid my shoes off and sat down in her kitchen. Once I revealed my injury it was apparent that a band-aid was no help. The toe was still in full on bleed-to-death mode. PA left to grab some actually helpful supplies when around the corner came Nora. I missed that kid. I was glad that I had an excuse to be around. … damn, I miss that hoe…


PA was right in her assessment that I might need stitches. I did NOT manifest that. The money I would’ve spent at Brillobox would’ve been much less than medical treatment. My stress level reached a new high. If cutting my toe off would’ve been the cheaper option I’d have taken it. (insert Patrick “I have $2” meme) Anything that cost money was too much. Had I not been in close proximity of other people who cared I’d have been screwed. Love and resources hold as much weight as they always have.

But I had no money. PA suggested I go to an urgent care. F$CCCCCK. I joked before about dying before I go to a hospital but the situation was all too in my face. Paying even for Advil would have broken the bank. My toe kept bleeding so I had to acquiesce. PA and I loaded up the car (with ourselves) and I ditched the bloody rag in the garage before we left for the nearest Urgent Care. We pulled out of the alley and to my right was a fit looking girl walking a dog. I thought ‘Is this the last hot chick I get to see?’ I felt so low.

When we pulled up to Urgent Care I felt even lower. Three men were in front the building and they looked as surprised to see us as we were to see that they were closed forever. PA and I drove back to the house. My depression was simmering. All I wanted was to stop bleeding.

In the house PA looked for some more substantial bandaging. She helped me wrap it up in gauze and tape it tight. Right now my pinky and the adjacent toe are bound together. The bandage doesn’t look blood filled so I’m assuming the bleeding halted or slowed immensely. I hope it’s completely healed tomorrow. I’m trying to manifest seeing Cassi again.

Best Friend

The COVID experiment gave me nine months off. I’m always working on something. I was thinking about Chelsea asking me who my best friend was. After thinking about it I said “Me”. She was like Naw, it’s me or something like that and I thought that she was crazy.

Bro I’m 100% my best friend. My first and best friend outside of my family was Dorian. By then I was 10 years old. In those ten years I spent a majority of my time at home with Donna. I consumed whatever she consumed or fucked off to my room. If I wasn’t doing homework I was thinking about girls, my life, self-esteem, how to have a good fucking time, and how to get better. … The setting was set by the time I met Dorian.

We vibed instantly from my recollection. That was my first nigga. He lived sorta around the corner from me when I moved to Churchland Street. Lemington Elementary was right behind our house. I could wake up, think about school, get dressed, and be there in four minutes. That was kinda clutch. A ten minute saunter away lived my Grandma. If I wasn’t at home I was there.

Friday Night was the Sabbath so I wasn’t doing SHIT. I was either at home consuming Bible related content with Donna or thinking. THE END. Every Saturday at 11 I was at church. Where the fuck else would I be?! Can’t skip God and then go fuck off somewhere. Nigga will see you… There was no reason nor would there be a reason for me not to be in church on Saturday.

Hillcrest is a small church nestled on one of the many hills overlooking the ever growing Hill District. (Yeeeahhh… real estate life shining through) With that said, there were less than two hundred people in that church. Hell, maybe even less than a hundo.

My idea of church family extended beyond those walls though. Across town in Wilkinsburg was Ethnan Temple. They were the only other Seventh-Day Adventist church I knew of. They had a much bigger population and much larger building from what I recall. Shit looked dope next to our rinky dink facility on the Hill. Either way since there were only two of us there was a silent rivalry. On Saturday I was either at my church, visiting a church out of town, or visiting Ethnan Temple.

My cousins went to Hillcrest so I wasn’t escaping the family. My Aunt Leslie attended with my cousins David, Karen, and Kristopher. Saturdays at 11a service started. I’d be up on Saturday eating, getting ready for church, and then at church. I thought church was boring until I was at teenager. I do remember our preachers and deacons being pretty intelligent. One pastor in particular stood out to me, Pastor Moffet (probably butchered the spelling). I remember our community being pretty smart in general. We weren’t a flash and bang church, we had discussions.

Saturday was filled with family, God, Bible related content, eating good food, and waiting for the sun to go down. At least when the sun went down I could talk about something worldly out in the open with my bros. I wasn’t at Club Zoo celebrating. I was still either at home, at a family member’s, or at church with the niggas. Saturday nights were always so cool to me because of the fun I had. I would watch a movie with my mom or play a game or do something cool with church family. On Sundays I did homework.

Fuck Sunday. I didn’t even know football was a thing because every Sunday I was doing homework. That or trying not to do homework. I had one day to cram all of it in. I at least made time for me and watched Pokemon. That’s all I remember being fun on Sundays… Pokemon.

Monday I’d be back in that weak ass school. I have memories of Lemington Elementary but really I don’t. I was almost non existent in elementary school. None of those niggas were my friends. I brought my healthy packed lunch to school in a red Rubbermaid container with its cloudy top and lil handle to grab on to. When I opened that motherfucker my classmates would gasp. What smelled excellent and delicious to me smelled weird to them. Everything else about me was just as weird to them and germane to me.

I had no friends in that school. I don’t even remember feeling bothered by it. Fuck these niggas, I had the Hicks family. Down the street from Lemington I could walk to my Grandma’s house. In there contained the Hicks(es?). This is important because these niggas are crazy. All of them. I was raised by a funny, aggressive, close knit group with unlimited personality. If I wasn’t with them I was at church, with my momma at home, or in my room alone. This went on for about ten years.

Middle school was just the next progression for me. I didn’t realize how much my mom pushed for me to get good education. The school she vied for me to get into was carved right out of the lush and beautiful Point Breeze neighborhood. At Sterrett Classical Academy I met Dorian. He lived right around the corner from me apparently. He was the first friend not from my clan.

At Sterrett I was in awe. I remember it being the first time I woke up in school. That and girls in that school were hot and developing. I was so used to seeing mostly black people that these Jew hoes and Russian hoes and Italian hoes and Turkish hoes were blowing my … oh yeah, and the white hoes… they were a new flavor. I always wanted to fuck Fran Drescher but to meet her?

That’s was middle school for me. From the moment I got there to when I left I remember being presented hard work. Middle school was the toughest education I received. Dorian was there getting straight A’s and still being cool as shit. I didn’t understand how one could be both, be all, and be so funny!

That nigga Dorian had me in stitches. I remember spending nights over his house laughing so hard all I could do was hold my aching stomach and roll on the floor laughing some more. Bro, how fortunate! Nigga was smart, knew VAAASTLY more about anything popular than me, and had good taste. How did I FIND this nigga? His family was cool as shit too.

I got lucky finding Dorian, getting into this school, meeting new people, and seeing different hoes. Apparently I got in trouble for talking a lot in school and the more I talk about it I can see why. I’m excited right now! I gained so many new friends at Sterrett. Dorian will tell you I disappeared some summers and I did. I was always on a mission, even if I had to abandon my best friend.

At the end of those days, no matter what day, whether Saturday after church or cracking up at my family or chasing hoes at school or hanging with my mom, I would always end up in my room by myself. Every single day I was waking up, experiencing the vast array of life’s offerings, and ending it in my room. I had a lot to think about and a lot of time to do it.

That lifestyle extended into my adulthood. I spent waaay more time with people after high school, despite having a burgeoning network already. I had enough time in my world and I was going to explore others'. I was everywhere, all the time, experiencing all that I could. From 17 years old to COVID I was running through the streets in epic fashion. Most nights, if not every night, I came home to myself and my thoughts.

My thoughts never left me. My mind is my office. All of my work is done there. While running the streets I had to do fast math and be decisive. I was living a life that only I could follow. In order for me to get the kind of research and experiences I wanted to I had to go alone. I could only trust my eyes and my judgment.

Anyway when Chelsea asked me who my best friend was I was taken aback when she thought she was. LOL. I spent 95% of my time alone. This life is work, a product from a good crop, continually improving since day one.


No one could go on this journey with me. It has been a one-man mission from the jump. Solid Snake with a knife in his teeth. Jack Reacher with the toothbrush. 

I love my life and what I’ve done. I’d love to share it with people who get me. I’ve found some dope people. I’m usually by myself but I’m never alone.






















Man, I need a geeb. The pogoers are gone so I can dance in the kitchen undisturbed. Tik, tok...

Hard Work (March 10, 2020)

Lazy doesn’t begin to describe me. At 33 years old I’ve done nothing. I’ve fucked a few girls, been to a place or two, did a few drugs and didn’t die. Some who know me would say I’m funny. Other people would say I’m a nice guy. I think both camps would agree that I’m weird. Still I’ve done nothing with my life. I’m lazy as fuck.

I’m doing laundry today. Man I’m really going for it. I walked two floors down, fumbled with some keys, opened a door, walked to a basement, placed four quarters in a machine and then walked the three floors back up to my apartment. I’m about to see if I can retire from chores. I’m shouting "Oh, he’s got to win MVP if he puts them in the dryer" as I reach my apartment. I light the already half smoked bowl and celebrate.


I’ve always been as lazy as I am today. Hard work is as annoying as the people who always do it. Kobe Bryant is gnawing at my subconscious but I gotta do what I gotta… I HATE hard work.


From what I understand the cycle of hard work goes as follows. 1. Do the hard work. 2. Improve at the hard work. 3. Love the hard work because 4. There’s only hard work. Hard working people exhaust me with their lifestyle choices. There seems to be no leisure involved. When I think of hard working people I picture them getting up early to start their day, a regimented schedule, sweat already by 5 a.m., books on tape while in transit, thermometers on a vision board mapping out progress, working out during lunch breaks and so on until a late 10p sleep time. I’d almost rather die than to be that.


I can do work. Hard, long (settle down), all day work. At T-Mobile I was a “Retail Sales Associate” but in actuality I was a mini manager with terrible sales acumen. At Two Men and a Truck Dorian and I would sometimes work from 8a to 8p lifting heavy furniture and having minimal breaks. My job at Goodwill was to lift stuff with no help for eight hours. That job I kept for a year. If hard needs to be done for sure I can do it.


It’s from all the hard work that I’ve seen and done in my life that I am so averse to it. I understand what needs to happen for things to get done. Thinking about how things can fail or succeed is an exercise I do daily. If I’m to do hard work it requires a lot of focus, dedication and precision. Anything less than All is an insult to the thing that I’m working on. Outside of beating my dick there is nothing in the world I want to work hard with.


Right now I’m 33 with no money, no career, no car and like two almost jobs. This is hardly working for me.

Starting Over

I feel like I’m at the beginning. Like I pressed a reset button. I’m back to zero and working towards one. At work whisking through aisles I become reminiscent. Well, why not? Everyone around me is 20 years old. Either they just left high school or are still in it. They'll all look back fondly one day at their time working at a grocery store. I’m just starting now. 

I live by myself. Finally! There’s something to boast about. Some of these kids still live at home or with their roommates. I can rub that in their face at least. They'll laugh at me snubbing them while I walk my ass to the T. I need all the mental edge I can get. I have to justify why we’re on the same level. 

In some weird magic eight ball scenario I envisioned this. After spending night after night in a T-Mobile store with seemingly no escape, my dreams died. The best I thought I could do was walk into a job and charm my way to the top. With my credentials I can do that at a grocery store. 

Literally, I was hired in a fire sale. Giant Eagle was giving away jobs. The company they commissioned to organize the sale even offered to pay us (still don’t know when that’s coming, hurrumph). Me and some nigga who left the state and came back 30 years later like witness protection were hired at the same time, no questions. I think I was asked “Did you fill out an application online,” and “What job do you want?”

As long as I didn’t molest kids I was in. My piss wasn’t even tested. I scribbled down jobs dating back to the Reagan era on a beer cooler just to get rejected by a distributor. All Giant Eagle wanted to know was “WHAT HOURS DO YOU WANT?” 


I’m a 34 year old, straight of out high school, genius baby. My knees and life experience project the 34 years and my resume shows that I lived in Pittsburgh. My life is running through aisles, talking to pretty teenagers, waking up early and doing just enough work to get by. I haven’t just gone backwards, I’ve started over.

Letter to 14 Year-Old Julian (April 17, 2020)

Dear 14 Year-Old Julian,


You’re fucked. I’m just kidding. Hi, this is your future self. I’m almost two decades older than you and a lot is going to happen, not just in your life but in the world around you.


None of that fucking matters though. You’re the GOAT. My bad, it’s 2000 or 2001 where you are. GOAT is an acronym for “Greatest of All Time” which is usually used by sports writers. You’re that. Those questions, those never-ending questions, they’ll be answered in time. All of those feelings, emotions and thoughts will make sense the more experience you get with yourself and the world. Trust me, you’ll be getting experience.


The world is about to change something fierce with the internet. Here’s an example. I’m typing this letter on a laptop computer. The laptop is connected to the internet and the world wide web has waaaay more sites than I could’ve imagined at your age.


About an hour ago I was able to download 40some pictures onto an online storage unit that I pay $10/month for called Dropbox. Those 40 or so pictures were downloaded within one minute. I can pull up videos from websites and have them look crispier than that “Matrix” DVD, all within seconds of thinking about it. These things are a far cry from mom’s computer with its slow ass music downloads.


Now, imagine everything that you can do with a computer. In the years to come you’ll be able to do all of that and more on a mobile phone. That’s right, no more bus schedules or Map Quests since Google (you’ll see) has damn near perfected Google Maps. I won’t go into detail but cellular phones (or cell phones) will be better than a Dick Tracy watch and everyone will have one.


I hope I’m not boring you...us...you know. Boredom will never be a problem. Currently I’m in the year 2020 and for reasons I won’t get into I’m at home by myself a lot. Between video games (they’re sooo good now) and the massive usage I can get from the internet, I’m always able to look at the vast world around me. There’s never a dull moment.



But I’ll get to the important part, girls. In my 33 years of living, girls have taken an almost lion share of my energy. If you’re anything like me (hehe) it will take up yours too. You’ll probably figure this out (or you know it already) but be yourself. Being me has taken me to places I never thought I’d be. I told you you’re the GOAT and its true. Girls like you now, believe it or not. Girls will continue to like you. If you pan out just as you have been up until 14 you’ll continue to develop people skills, be funny, charming, honest, trustworthy, open, diverse and have a keen eye for things. You’ll still jerk off everyday, don’t get it twisted.



I could probably write you a book on girls but what’s the fun in that? Most of your greatest moments will be failures, even if you do differently than me. Failure is necessary. You will fail countless times in search for your place in life, hopefully everyone will. You being fear averse is going to help you build up courage. At 14, if I remember correctly, I was a little bitch. I wouldn’t even walk up to a girl I liked or say anything. If I could rewrite my life differently and go back to your age, I would fail more. You’ll understand soon. Get out there and experiment. What won’t kill you will give you wisdom. In 2020, with basically a Library of Alexandria at everyone’s fingertips, people are still dumb as fuck. Wisdom will still be scarce.



The only issue I have at 33 is trying to figure out a career path. I still don’t know what I’m doing. I’m waiting on some unemployment money (as is everyone else, you’ll see) and am about $200 short on rent. Before this period I was working at a restaurant as a server. It’s not as fun as it seems but the money is plentiful and I would honestly recommend you get into this industry before you turn 30. As nice as the industry is its a young man’s game with long shifts that require a lot of energy. Also there’s hella hoes.



I’m 33 now and I’m looking back on the life I’ve had since I was 14. You’re certainly in for a ride, my friend. The best advice I can give is to be you, start a stretching routine now, drink loads of water, shy away from alcohol (believe it or not I drank a lot in my 20s, yuck) and be brutally honest with yourself. Honesty requires a lot of work that you are more than capable of. Being honest coupled with a desire not to intentionally hurt anyone has made me a deity. No matter how much information, entertainment or distraction there will be in this world, being honest is something people can’t download.


Good luck, kid. I hope I was able to help. One last thought on failure. You’re 14, all you have is that time. In 20 years no one will remember your failures. Not you, not the people who saw you, not the ones who judged you or the people who supported you. No one will remember your successes or your failures. Fail a fucking way.




With The Utmost Love and Respect,

33 Year-Old Julian

Arnold Palmer

Here’s everything I know about Arnold Palmer:

He’s from Mt. Lebanon(?) or some Pittsburgh affiliate, he popularized golf and created the golf superstar, his drink is THE SHIT and he’s dead.

If I hear someone talking shit about Arnold Palmer here’s what I know:

He fucked your grandmother in high school. Western PA, motherfucker. Show some respect to the GOAT.