Fantastic Damage

Frustration and anger are dangerous if not channeled correctly.  Melanin Brooks is usually chock full of chill.  You look up "stoic" in the dictionary and there's a picture of me holding a rum & Coke.  I hit my dougie on a glacier once, and a pillow once exploded in my presence because it did not feel it was cool enough for the kid.

Then something went wrong.  Something terrible.  That day was November 8, 2011.   Under the cover of darkness, a pox was released upon the Earth.  Slowly, men and women worldwide started to show symptoms of the sickness.  These include blind rage and anger, overaggressive behavior, loss of confidence, false confidence, explosive diarrhea and the fear of green network bars. No, we were not exposed intentionally.  A major corporation promised us improvement, refinement...evolution. Boy, were they way off.

In the beginning we believed we received the promise.  Wishful thinking? Perhaps, yet slowly and surely reports started to flow in.   Of course they were dismissed as heresy, lies, bullshit.  Even I wrote off the reports as baseless trolling.  Until it happened to me.

On an unseasonably warm day in March, I decided to take a "mental health" day.  You know, sit around in your drawers, watch some Maury, make a pinata you know regular off day stuff.  In between women being 110 million sure that Lil June was the daddy, I decide to indulge in some product.  Granted, I had initially ran it over the coals in a previous blog entry, I continued to use.  Did I enjoy it?  Sometimes, but a bulk of the time I felt filthy.  I felt like I needed to conquer it, but instead the flag was planted directly and squarely, with authority, into my spare time.

Then the cool completely left me.  I would not become one of "them."  Before my brain could process what was happening (lag comp,) my hand, with all the furor I could muster, hurled the product to the ground!



GIFSoup

 My intention was not to destroy.  Panic strikes.  I frantically hurried to check the damage, only to find out the wounds are fatal:

For a moment, I held the disc.  Thinking sixty bucks down the crapper.  Most importantly the hours I spent...no...WASTED with this substance.  My remorse was nil. I continued to build my pinata as if nothing happened.

Note: This is a work of fiction.  Well the pinata part is...

Life's Good Though.

We throw words around light as a feather.  No substance, no weight.  Another Mylar balloon waiting on inevitable deflation and dolphin suffocation.  Promise, the unwanted newborn left in a bathroom stall.  Cliches, last years fashion hangs in a Ross store, next to the big ass tub of gummi worms. Worst of all you and others lob these kind words, knowing their worth is penny ante.  Jordans at the flea market, Prada shades in the beauty salon.  A keen eye and common sense usually prevail, but many will be deceived.  Flight on wings sprung forth from what was thought to be a mutual love and respect wither under the weight of falsehood.  Then poof "best friends become strangers."

Therein lies a mystery Mosley couldn't pen.  I don't have enough loot to hire the Hardy Boys, and Bill Duke got me to cop to some shit I did when I was 8 years old.  So, the resolution lies with you.  A conundrum that will be taken to your grave, or Twitter...or Facebook....anywhere but here.  Speak to the wind, long as it's not blowing the truth in my direction.  Meanwhile, I prepare for my staycation under this bus...

And all I attempted to do was be the friend I thought you were to me...

If this grows Sonic shoes and gets to you, best believe this is not a plea for any semblance of the past to be salvaged.  That shit is dead, if it ever had a heart to begin with.  I would like to close the last chapter then hurl the book into the fireplace, but not before we discuss what has transpired and you hold to your words like a decent human being.

There is no laundry being aired...only your guilt.

Skeeter wouldn't have done this to Scooter.