My brain is about to explode. I haven't written in a few days for the stupidest reason. I can't settle on a topic! I've got writer's block in reverse. It's killing me. I'll read something one of you wrote, and then I'll want to write about it but I don't. Why? I don't like to steal other people's thunder. Not that my musings are so much better than anyone else's, but that's how I feel.

Bernie Mac died. That sucks! He wasn't the best comedian in the world, but he was damned funny.



That wasn't even his funniest bit, just the most memorable.

Death is funny. It makes you think. Lately, death is something I don't like to think of. My own mortality is becoming more and more of an issue, and that makes death and dieing all too real. Death used to be something only old people did. And when they did it, no one really cared because 'what the hell?, they were old'.

I've got different ideas about my death. It appears that I'm going to die in my sleep. That's cool. I don't want to know it's happening. I really don't want to wake up and realize I'm dieing. I don't want that helpless feeling to come over me. I'm thinking too much about this shit.

One of my bigger issues is I want someone to give a shit that I'm gone. Not just my son, daughter, sister and girlfriend, other people. I want people like you guys to remember me! How cool would that be if all my people blogged about me? That would be the shit! And when I say all my people, I mean ALL my people: Donuts, Night Bug, Seven, Angie, Trisha, Biggie T., Rubble, Nurse, Al, MindPower, you know...? Anyone I've forgotten, it's not on purpose, I've got CRS (can't remember shit) really bad. Okay, so my ego is out of control, but who doesn't want to be remembered?

I haven't said the word fuck in a couple minutes. FUCK! I can't help it, it's just my thing. Anyhoo, I'm out this bitch.



Some things I do just for Chanda!

Here's one more: I'm beginning to make a hobby out of this!



Blaque-Out!

Have you ever wanted to say that to someone? No niceties, no sugar coating it, just straight up raw dawg, SHUT THE FUCK UP! If you've ever been there, you know exactly where I'm at with one of my co-workers.

Before I get all deep into it, let me say this: I have love for this man. (no homo) I just can't stand the fact that he doesn't know when to shut the fuck up! He's one of those people that talk just because they have lips. He may not even know what the fuck he's talking about, but he's going to talk!

This wouldn't be such a problem if we didn't work in a retail setting. When a customer asks you questions, they expect you to be able to answer them. Not only that, they expect you to KNOW what you're talking about! Now given that he used to be a hustler, he's got a very natural talk game. The average person might not know that he's talking out of his ass. But I do! And it pisses me off!

I work in the arena of car audio. Even the least expensive items we have aren't cheap. Enter Captain Mouth Cocky (always talking shit). He's all about the almighty dollar. He tries to push the most expensive shit we've got. The problem is, that particular item might not be the right piece for the application. Most times an item lesser in price will do the job. Example: I have subwoofers in my truck that cost $850.00 a piece. They're loud as hell. But they won't work in a Honda Civic because there's no room for them in a little assed car. But he keeps trying to sell them to people that drive Hondas. Dude, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

If that was all he did he would be tolerable. But on top of running his mouth, he has no curse filter. The man can't make a sentence without cursing. This disturbs most people. This really disturbs the 50+ year old women trying to buy a remote car starter! I truly hate this man at times!

Did I mention that he's black and has dreads, bad teeth, and a fake eye? My bad. This is my life! To top is all off, he doesn't even get paid for being here. He just happens to live next door and keeps coming over!

That's all for now. I think I've dropped enough F-bombs for me and Chandra! But just in case, I leave you with this:



Weird!

Blaque-Out!

It would appear that I'm moving. I'm very happy about this. For 2 years I've been living in the hell hole that is my son's grandmother's house. Admittedly, no one forced me to be there. I stayed of my own accord. My reasons for doing so are as complicated as they are simple. Either way, I don't wish to discuss them here. I have to check the statute of limitations on some of them. I'm just serious!

As with everything, there's good and bad aspects to moving in with mom. On the good side, I'll FEEL better. That's important to me. I haven't felt good in a long while. I'll SMELL better too. There's something about soap and premium laundry detergent that has no equal. But then there's the bad parts... My commute to work just got shorter by a whole mile and a half. There's always food to eat. I don't have to worry about anyone 'borrowing' my personal effects. Wait, these are supposed to be bad reasons...

Hell, with all the surgeries I have upcoming, moving to my mom's could be the best thing for me to do. My blood pressure is through the roof. My temper is off the hook. I've got a whole laundry list of shit wrong with me. And then there's the other shit I don't know how to explain.

I don't know how I'm going to explain this to Autumn. I know she's going to be able to accept what's going on as what's best for me. I just don't know how she's going to feel about not seeing me as much as she wants to. Not that we see each other very much now... Oh well, we'll see.

Stay tuned. Same Blaque time, same Blaque channel.

Blaque-Out!

I'm dying. No need for any dramatic build up or anything. It is what it is. My dieting (or lack thereof), diabetes, sleep apnea, and fatassalitis have conspired together to make things real easy for me to die.

Forgive me for not knowing all the specifics. To be honest, I really don't care to know what they are. I know too much already. Before I knew I had all this shit, my quality of life was much better. I did what I wanted, when I wanted for as long as I wanted. Now I can't do half the things I used to take for granted. This would seem to give fuel to the theory that some of this may be mental, but the toll that it takes on my physical is all too real. Anyhoo, onto the meat and potatoes....

The right side of my heart is really weak. What that means I don't know. All I know is that walking a flight of steps raises the heart level to the point that I think it may burst. It appears that exercise is actually detrimental at this point. I'm stuck with the old ladies in the pool aquasizing. I totally fuck up the age curve when I'm there!

Oh yeah, some of you may know that I had a sleep machine for a while. That shit didn't work well for me at all. The new thing now is they want to give me a trache! I probably spelled it all wrong so I'll explain. They want to cut a hole in my esophagus so I can breathe at night. During the day, I would breathe normally. At night, I would remove a plug in my throat and thereby breath. Sweet! Right? I'm on the fence on this one. While I don't relish the thought of a hole in my throat, the pros seem to outweigh the cons on this one.

I'm beginning to look like the neighborhood fat lady. Not only do I have boobs, I've got cankles too! It's sad. I haven't seen my feet in months. From what I hear, I don't want to either! I've got about 30 lbs of water around my lower leg area. You could probably safely add another 10 or more lbs around my heart. I'm all fucked up, and yet still I blog!

I'm trying to do everything I can to get right. For a long time I wasn't. Fuck it, while I'm being honest, let's be completely honest. My girlfriend Autumn (Ms. Christine) is doing everything possible. There's a small contingent that seems to think that she's helping to kill me slow, when in actuality, if not for her I wouldn't be this far along. I definately wouldn't even have the insurance to do ANY of the things I've gotten done. Kudos to her!

There was more I wanted to say but it sort of depresses me. I'm pretty sure I'm going to die way before my parents. It's not supposed to happen that way, but that's the way it seems. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to die. If only for selfish reasons, there's still some shit I have to accomplish before I've reached the end of this mortal coil. I won't name them here, but they include midgets, asian women, Night Bug, and lots of slow music.

Holla at your boy. I'll be around for a while. I think.

Blaque Out!

Why can't women park cars? Because we keep telling them that -------- is 6 inches.

I posted that one somewhere way back in one of my other blogs. Back then I thought it was terribly funny. I have different views on depth perception now. Sorry guys, your fearless leader was the victim of some fuckery (for lack of a better word)as of late. Let me break it down for you.

I was in the hospital for some shit that I'll write about in a more serious post. While I was there I mentioned to the doctor that I was having a hard time passing stool (that's shit for all my low-brow brothers). With the shit that was going on with me at the time, he explained that that would be normal and he could check it out for me. Cool. Then he asked me to roll over and drop trou. I looked him over briefly for any signs of faggotry. While I'm not homophobic, I just feel better if the man looking in my anus is as uncomfortable as I am. Ya dig? He seemed to understand and even disclosed to me that he was married and had a few anklebiters too. All right, let's do this. He gloves up while I reluctantly roll to my side. I wasn't watching, but I'm assuming he applied some sort of super lube to his finger (which I thought was all that was going in there). Then it happened. It has to be because of that lube. His finger turned into an 8 foot long Burmese python! Thankfully this python stopped before it got to my lungs! How deep was this guy going?

After trying to no avail to jump off my hospital bed to escape this cruel and unusual torture, it was finally over. And because you, my loyal readers, are who you are, I can admit to you, I cried. Now don't get me wrong, I'm no punk-bitch. I am still the head of the He-Man Woman Haters Club. Don't get it twisted, this was no Joy Luck Club, Yentl, Rent, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants cry. Hell no, this was just a silent tear running down my face, falling to the floor.

Because of this experience I have made a vow. I will never run up in a woman (or man) anally again. How could anyone pretend to enjoy that is beyond me! My girlfriend swears that he only put his finger in up to the first knuckle, but what does she know? She still thinks I'm huge in the pants. And that's how I plan to keep it!

Blaque Out!