Originally I was planning on writing a farewell blog to all the students of IU, townies of Bloomington, and groupie hoes; but after 10 minutes in Btown this weekend and a text from Tanya saying she needed me to finger blast her asap because Reggie had worse hands than Braylon Edwards, I think it’s clear IU is where I need to be for everyone’s sake. I’m sure my professor loved the weekly tales of how tipped I got and how many new haters I gained over the weekend when she assigned blogs for HW… and now she’ll get to read more. Since the University seems to have disagreed with many (all) of my educational and social decisions last year, your blog entries will be most likely be administered by Reggie, Ruff, DJ 75, as well as some celeb posts. That is until next semester when I can successfully nomad on someone’s couch (It will unlikely be superior to Ruff’s Smallwood nomad living situation) and in the meantime you’ll get a few stories of how every day for me is like a lame version of this in the Ivy Tech parking lot…but for now I’d like to touch on a favorite pastime of mine- blowin and and gettin swoll- and how the illest way to work off last weekend’s bad/dope decisions brought your boy to an epiphany.
Getting high and working out is one of the least talked about and least appreciated pleasures of fitness. Lifting weights is fun when you’re under the spell, cardio is cool too, but for me, nothing compares to domin’an L and strappin the heavy bag up on the deck. 2 tokes of the good is usually all it takes to start the enchanted wave, 3 if I wanna go deep. As its spirit enters my system it flows from the lungs into the bloodstream and as it passes through the body slowly in every cell, I get in the zone and cue in the music. Music is a must. “I wanna be a billionaire” starts things off as I begin to shadow box. I’ve got a timer on my phone that fires off a loud “saved by the bell” ringtone every 3 minutes and “back that azz up” every 30 seconds to let me know when to work, sprint, and when to rest. By the second round of shadow boxing Rick Ross has taken over the tunes and the sweat has started to flow. Soon I’ve moved from shadow boxing to putting the gloves on and bouncing in front of the bag waiting for my phone to go off, a Khalifa beat to start bangin, and I’ve settled into the favorable groove. For me the initial goal is always to find the balance between concentration and losing myself completely in the movements. That’s where the love is. When the two of them sync up perfectly together, the body flows smoothly from my bush league technique to moves formed from my pure baked-ness, never stopping to admire the work.
There’s two common times in my life where I always feel like I have to write my feelings down right then and there because it is a special and fragile vibe that I’m tuning into, and I want to hold onto as much of it as possible. One is when I’m out with my cronies, pre-gamin usually, and I’m just catching a buzz when I go to the bathroom to drain the golden hammer. I’ve come to some life altering revelations about friendships and what’s important in my life while looking into that urinal cake and reflecting on the wonders of this temporary experience on this floating rock. I always think that I need to step aside and write down how I feel right then and there while I’ve got a hold of it, the slipperiest of thoughts, but my BB doesn’t have a functioning “m” button.. I can barely sext, let alone express my feelings to the max. I usually wind up just hanging out and having fun, but somehow I almost always eventually lose the magic of that precious inspiration as the night goes on, and then I have to wait until a similar night in a similar urinal to recapture that fuzzy picture again. The other time I feel that way is right after I get done getting high and working out, and that’s where I’m at right now. I’m dripping sweat onto the keyboard, drips of sweat illuminating my “no fat chicks” tattoo in the blacklights while I’m sitting on a folded towel. If I showered before I sat down to write this I’m pretty sure I would have lost some of what I’m feeling right now. There’s a sweet wisdom that reveals itself out there on that deck. It doesn’t give me any complete answers, but it gives a brief respite from the monkey body and offers a clearer view of what it really is that we’re dealing with in this life.
That’s why I’ve decided to trek back to where the roots began. Where, on a fateful night in Wil’s small, cold, akward dorm room playing beer pong it all came full circle. Van Dyke was probably wearing a classy v-neck paired with a destroyed set of kicks, and had a blank yet determined stare on his face, ready for anything because at that time he was untouchable by authority figures. It was this same cold December Wednesday that I met a doucher wearing a Michigan State jersey, posted with the only hot ginger I’ve ever encountered on his lap, looking like his annual number of showers were 2, serious hygiene problem was my first thought…just grimey overall. Yet when he hid in the closet after the RA’s ignored the “if the room’s a rockin, don’t come a knockin” sign on the door; Ruff, Pickles, and I had bonded on another level. The next day we were on some FIFA together enjoying bong snaps and skipped class…the 0.0 Experiment had begun.
Usually when I’m down here in the dirty, at the end of the night, I’m looking down into the shot glass at a deep pit of despair just knowing I have to wake up in the morning and tell some retarted slampiece with daddy issues (that only listens to Gucci because the deep suburban parts of Louisville are obviously “hood” (side note within a side note; a lot of girls get dinner, but only apathetic cunts can win my heart)) that she needs to leave because I have class; even though I don’t, I simply need to take a shower because I’m feeling straight heinous since I can’t just skate off after taggin’ a biddy as usual. But even in the nerd capital of North Jordan Street, there was something different in the bottom of that shot glass this weekend. It may have been a mixture of backwash compounded by creepy bros and sorostitutes alike, but I think it was something bigger than that. Since Reggie was at home sucking on Janet’s tit as usual, Bryson and I prowled together, we disrespected women, we clowned a nerd that did the Chappelle robot dance with a long sleeve button up (only the bottom button fastened and no undershirt, of course), it seemed as if we were on that same “floating rock”.
Coming back to IU is a major decision though, don’t get me wrong. I only want two things in this life, one is to have an old drug sniffing dog so I never lose my weed and the other is to be in Btown (if you knew the Villas don’t allow pets you would see the dilemma). But as DMB once said, “turns out not where, but who you’re with that really matters”, and if DMB is really gonna be making life decisions for me…. Then fuck it, I’m back Btown.
P.S. Biddy’s, don’t let the long hair or additional tattooing fool you, I haven’t changed one bit so don’t expect me to have grown up in any way. I’ll still be disrespecting you, refusing to cuddle, and as always, the same rules will apply; I won’t pitch in for pregnancy tests and documentation will be needed to prove its mine.
BBBRRRRLLLLLL (bird call…..bitches)
"SURE I'VE BEEN CALLED A XENOPHOBE, BUT THE TRUTH IS I'M NOT. I HONESTLY JUST FEEL THAT AMERICA IS THE BEST COUNTRY AND ALL THE OTHER COUNTRIES AREN'T AS GOOD. THAT USED TO BE CALLED PATRIOTISM."
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