The youth is in a vegetative state. Where are the ambitious guns I knew in high school? Did they get lost in the hype of campus life (namely, hubbly and BBM contact recruitment) or did they get lost in the idea of Love (read: really good sex). Regardless of the factors leading up to this travesty, should we be pulling the plug on the kids? Perhaps...
Want a few pointers on being 'successful' in the YMCMB *cringe* sense of the word?
1. A degree does not guarantee a job, nor does it guarantee a successful life.
2. No amount of weed can fix your state of unemployment, it can only make it look prettier to yourself (and more pathetic to the rest of us).
Please note that the only successful young stoners worth mentioning at present are Wiz Khalifa and Weezy, and it took them a while to get here anyway. Marijuana makes you mellow, not determined.
3. If you want to be a king at what you do, you'd better be a nerd at it first. (Google homework: Zuckerberg, Jobs, Lagerfeld, Galliano, McQueen to name a few).
4. University doesn't mean shit unless you apply your knowledge. And you can't apply anything you've learnt if your days are spent revving your car at hoodrats.
5. Success isn't easy. And if it is for you, then you've done it all wrong.
Sound like stuff your parent's have said to you? I doubt it...if you don't like what you're studying, leave it. If you aren't doing what you love, chase it down until you are. Above all though, change your attitude.
If you don't think, act and envision successfully, you'll always be an inch short of it.
In the words of Erykah Badu: "They sleep. We grind."
Now get on it.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
So This Is What Exhaustion Feels Like
Is it the aching insides or the insides that ache for a certain measure of presence?
Here I am, reduced to John Mayer singing about being in pieces on a hotel floor. He claims that he learnt to let it go. I'm not convinced. He's a liar, and aren't we all, gesturing wildly to the world that we are stable and productive enough to be worthy of the prison we call the Wonderful Life.
A few days ago I hit a peak of sorts, a new high of productivity, a feeling of accomplishment. But now I've had to resort to calling in the big guns of motivation, and begging them for a modicum of support. Falling asleep at my desk isn't exactly the problem (nothing an energy drink won't fix right?), the issue at hand seems to be falling apart at my desk instead.
These silly eyes have been welling up with unnecesary emotions all day and I'm 5 minutes away from using a leaf blower to dry out these tear ducts that have a life of their own. Inconvenient is the word. It is also the understatement..
This is silly...yet the thought of the loss is slightly overwhelming.
Where the f*** is my bong when I need it...
Here I am, reduced to John Mayer singing about being in pieces on a hotel floor. He claims that he learnt to let it go. I'm not convinced. He's a liar, and aren't we all, gesturing wildly to the world that we are stable and productive enough to be worthy of the prison we call the Wonderful Life.
A few days ago I hit a peak of sorts, a new high of productivity, a feeling of accomplishment. But now I've had to resort to calling in the big guns of motivation, and begging them for a modicum of support. Falling asleep at my desk isn't exactly the problem (nothing an energy drink won't fix right?), the issue at hand seems to be falling apart at my desk instead.
These silly eyes have been welling up with unnecesary emotions all day and I'm 5 minutes away from using a leaf blower to dry out these tear ducts that have a life of their own. Inconvenient is the word. It is also the understatement..
This is silly...yet the thought of the loss is slightly overwhelming.
Where the f*** is my bong when I need it...
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Riding In (shiny) Cars With Boys
Hey You in the Velociti with the blacked out windows which you roll all the way down, don't rev your engine at me, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
So I'm picky when it comes to random okes growling at me with their cars, especially when those guys happen to have gold teeth, no life and a sad attempt at swag. But that doesn't mean that I should hate on the poor man's whip. A jerk is a jerk, regardless of whether he's in a Lambo or a Datsun.
*throws on lab coat*
Today class, I would like to familiarise you with the condition known as Bling Bitch Syndrome. This particular condition is not unlike Magpie Syndrome. Yes, girls like shiny and expensive looking things. Like ostriches. Or crows.
*throws on yoga instructor robe*
Boys, if you have any wealth at all, I would like you to now assume the Lotus Position and breathe the mantra: ...Inhale...Exhale..."PREEEEEE-Nup"
I feel that I should defend the women at this point and quite frankly, this condition isn't entirely their fault, it's an evolutionary trait. Animals look for mates which will increase their offspring's chance of survival right? A woman feels the need to look for, and pursue a mate who would be able to provide the optimal conditions for offspring rearing, resulting in an almost maniac hunt for the richest men in their range.
The aforementioned justification is unfortunately not included in the more serious cases of BBS, a Gold Digger does not want kids and this is where the brothers need to scrutinise. A GD will look about 5 times nicer than a girl with good intentions. Her clothing will either be impeccable and of the highest quality (probably from the last man she milked) which will lull you into a fall sense of security. Make no mistake guys, she is not wifey material if she wants your card & last name but not your children. If her legs spread like the pages of the Sunday paper in a coffee shop, you'd better run like a Jamaican ego-maniac.
Now, seeing as this is the new age, a time where many women are earning more than their partners, I should warn the lovely ladies of the Gold Diggers from the opposite sex. He might tell you that he wants to be your Baby Daddy, that he wants nothing more than to be the man of your house (yes, of YOUR house) and that you're his Game Changer (a line he'll use every time you catch him with another girl) but believe me, when the sh** hits the fan, he'll be gone with a chunk of your hard work and a damn good story to tell the boys.
How does one treat this condition? By getting out and seeing the real world. By getting to know the people in the run-down cars. By toning down your judgmental scoff and falling back to the good Earth.
If after reading this you realise that you have a BBS suffering GD in your midst, I suggest you do what any rational, unclouded individual would. Shoot those f***ers like Clay Pigeons.
PS: Don't take any of my advice, you should know that I talk out of my ass. If you do go ahead and shoot your partner, I cannot be held responsible. I told you to shoot Clay Pigeons.
So I'm picky when it comes to random okes growling at me with their cars, especially when those guys happen to have gold teeth, no life and a sad attempt at swag. But that doesn't mean that I should hate on the poor man's whip. A jerk is a jerk, regardless of whether he's in a Lambo or a Datsun.
*throws on lab coat*
Today class, I would like to familiarise you with the condition known as Bling Bitch Syndrome. This particular condition is not unlike Magpie Syndrome. Yes, girls like shiny and expensive looking things. Like ostriches. Or crows.
*throws on yoga instructor robe*
Boys, if you have any wealth at all, I would like you to now assume the Lotus Position and breathe the mantra: ...Inhale...Exhale..."PREEEEEE-Nup"
I feel that I should defend the women at this point and quite frankly, this condition isn't entirely their fault, it's an evolutionary trait. Animals look for mates which will increase their offspring's chance of survival right? A woman feels the need to look for, and pursue a mate who would be able to provide the optimal conditions for offspring rearing, resulting in an almost maniac hunt for the richest men in their range.
The aforementioned justification is unfortunately not included in the more serious cases of BBS, a Gold Digger does not want kids and this is where the brothers need to scrutinise. A GD will look about 5 times nicer than a girl with good intentions. Her clothing will either be impeccable and of the highest quality (probably from the last man she milked) which will lull you into a fall sense of security. Make no mistake guys, she is not wifey material if she wants your card & last name but not your children. If her legs spread like the pages of the Sunday paper in a coffee shop, you'd better run like a Jamaican ego-maniac.
Now, seeing as this is the new age, a time where many women are earning more than their partners, I should warn the lovely ladies of the Gold Diggers from the opposite sex. He might tell you that he wants to be your Baby Daddy, that he wants nothing more than to be the man of your house (yes, of YOUR house) and that you're his Game Changer (a line he'll use every time you catch him with another girl) but believe me, when the sh** hits the fan, he'll be gone with a chunk of your hard work and a damn good story to tell the boys.
How does one treat this condition? By getting out and seeing the real world. By getting to know the people in the run-down cars. By toning down your judgmental scoff and falling back to the good Earth.
If after reading this you realise that you have a BBS suffering GD in your midst, I suggest you do what any rational, unclouded individual would. Shoot those f***ers like Clay Pigeons.
PS: Don't take any of my advice, you should know that I talk out of my ass. If you do go ahead and shoot your partner, I cannot be held responsible. I told you to shoot Clay Pigeons.
Hormones: This Sh** Just Got Real
Ok, so let me start by apologising in advance for anyone I may offend over the next month. And while I'm swallowing my pride, I should express sincere regret and remorse for the people I have cussed out; hit and/or called filthy bastards. Honestly, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. The hormones made me do it.
Hormones. Whore-mones. Those little devils that can swing a woman from happy to f***ing furious, and men are more often than not the triggers. It isn't that we don't want to be nice, we do, we want to be angel farts but we simply cannot. Especially if you're hogging the tv and playing COD until the wee hours of the morning.
Maybe I should tread (lightly) on the topic of marital hormone troubles? If your wife/wifey wants to smack you when you walk into the house, gosh, I wish I had any sort of advice, I guess you should back down?
Hormones. Whore-mones. Dangerous little slags, capable of ruining a relationship, wrecking a home, road rage, riots, massacres, terorist attacks and even Climate Change.
Murderous sluts. Go on dear, push my buttons, Hell hath no fury like a woman on her period
Hormones. Whore-mones. Those little devils that can swing a woman from happy to f***ing furious, and men are more often than not the triggers. It isn't that we don't want to be nice, we do, we want to be angel farts but we simply cannot. Especially if you're hogging the tv and playing COD until the wee hours of the morning.
Maybe I should tread (lightly) on the topic of marital hormone troubles? If your wife/wifey wants to smack you when you walk into the house, gosh, I wish I had any sort of advice, I guess you should back down?
Hormones. Whore-mones. Dangerous little slags, capable of ruining a relationship, wrecking a home, road rage, riots, massacres, terorist attacks and even Climate Change.
Murderous sluts. Go on dear, push my buttons, Hell hath no fury like a woman on her period
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Queens of Psychoanalysis
“I’m fine!”- Two words that can make or break a relationship; and these words should set off alarm bells in every man’s head. Except quite often, the alarm bells between your man’s legs are more responsive, so he dumbs down the issue, makes a joke and moves on unaware of the impending doom. The unsuspecting victim is oblivious to the inevitable disaster that is a compounded wave of fury, comprising of everything he’s ever said that she took the wrong way.
Girls are paranoid. We are balls of suspicion, and very suspicious of your balls’ activities. If you are over affectionate, we’ll take it you’re cheating. If you’re under-affectionate, we’ll assume you’ve lost interest entirely. And if you (God forbid) say you’re confused, we’ll smack you, use our bedazzled car keys and write our names on the hood of your whip/s.
So here’s another revelation and this one should prompt every brother here to choose his words carefully the next time he speaks to his girl:
Women like to dissect your every word. But honestly, it’s because guys speak so little, that every syllable is a clue to what he’s really feeling right? Well…let’s put this into context.
Exhibit A- you ask him where the hell he’s been and he says:
With my boys”
I know, just three words BUT this is what she’s probably thinking:
1. He’s keeping his alibi vague so I can’t cross-examine his story.
2. Even if he was with his boys, why won’t he mention them by name? What, am I too uninvolved now? His boys love me, this is weird.
(suspicion sets in)
3. He doesn’t tell me anything anymore, this is just like that time he went to (insert place here) _______.
(boys, this is where you should worry)
4. Fine, whatever, I don’t care if he wants to give me three-word-answers, he’d better not ask me for any anytime soon.
(This is where he impounds your 'Mustang' and ensures that you don't get a chance on her, ahem, 'track' anytime soon. She has essentially installed a chastity belt for you)
5. Ugh, I can’t believe he played me like this. I bet it was that b**** (insert random ‘ho from the club’s name here) _______.
(Fellas, if she gets to this conclusion, you shouldn’t be stressed. You should be FREAKING OUT. She WILL confront you, accuse you and convict you without trial. And she WILL hunt that poor slag down and go Samurai-Wifey on her ass.)
This entire thought process takes less than half a minute and is rooted in three little words.
So watch your mouths young men, or she might show you a thing or two about being comprehensively communicative.
Girls are paranoid. We are balls of suspicion, and very suspicious of your balls’ activities. If you are over affectionate, we’ll take it you’re cheating. If you’re under-affectionate, we’ll assume you’ve lost interest entirely. And if you (God forbid) say you’re confused, we’ll smack you, use our bedazzled car keys and write our names on the hood of your whip/s.
So here’s another revelation and this one should prompt every brother here to choose his words carefully the next time he speaks to his girl:
Women like to dissect your every word. But honestly, it’s because guys speak so little, that every syllable is a clue to what he’s really feeling right? Well…let’s put this into context.
Exhibit A- you ask him where the hell he’s been and he says:
With my boys”
I know, just three words BUT this is what she’s probably thinking:
1. He’s keeping his alibi vague so I can’t cross-examine his story.
2. Even if he was with his boys, why won’t he mention them by name? What, am I too uninvolved now? His boys love me, this is weird.
(suspicion sets in)
3. He doesn’t tell me anything anymore, this is just like that time he went to (insert place here) _______.
(boys, this is where you should worry)
4. Fine, whatever, I don’t care if he wants to give me three-word-answers, he’d better not ask me for any anytime soon.
(This is where he impounds your 'Mustang' and ensures that you don't get a chance on her, ahem, 'track' anytime soon. She has essentially installed a chastity belt for you)
5. Ugh, I can’t believe he played me like this. I bet it was that b**** (insert random ‘ho from the club’s name here) _______.
(Fellas, if she gets to this conclusion, you shouldn’t be stressed. You should be FREAKING OUT. She WILL confront you, accuse you and convict you without trial. And she WILL hunt that poor slag down and go Samurai-Wifey on her ass.)
This entire thought process takes less than half a minute and is rooted in three little words.
So watch your mouths young men, or she might show you a thing or two about being comprehensively communicative.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
A Voice Like (Burnt) Honey?
Ever wondered how a woman can turn a man to putty with the sole purpose of being moulded in any which way she pleases? Ever been intrigued by the “I’ve-Donated-My-Balls-Syndrome”?
I’m here to tell you beloved reader that it is neither in her gait nor in her curves that this ‘power’ resides. Oh no, the truth is much more sinister…
A woman’s power over a man resides in her voice, or rather, a voice which she may use for good, or alternatively, evil (by a man’s standard anyway, think baking classes, shoe shopping and having to carry her handbag). I wish I could put your minds at ease and tell you that most women use their Voice for good, but I’d be lying horrifically. I have seen more vixens use this power to manipulate men than I’ve seen them use spermicide, and they use it a lot. Some of my case studies have included one young lady who loved nothing more than instigating an argument; throwing a tantrum and then pouting until her man crawled back (without any visible testes of course). And here’s the scary thing, it didn’t stop there, she would make these men grovel for days, if not weeks. But hey, *hats off*, it’s an ability and well, she’s a champ.
I know some okes would beg to differ, they claim that the mind-f*** is simply an extension of Game Running but if you’re a girl, you know it’s so much more than that. A woman’s way of running game isn’t direct; it’s about running circles around a guy until he hasn’t the slightest clue of which way to turn. And after you daze your prey you don’t attack, you sneak up on him and knock him out with that voice of honey. Once he’s yours, once he’s oblivious to every other piece of ass, you can use your voice for anything you’d like.
On the other end of the spectrum are the girls who used to run Game so hard that they should have had their gender verified and have never used the voice BUT have been knocked out cold and don’t even know what Game is anymore. This is the woman whose honey is oozed without restraint and more importantly is unintentional, just a reaction to the bass lines that give her heart palpitations.
I think a lot of people expect me to now call the former woman a slut and the latter a ‘real’ woman but honestly, I still have mad respect for women who can run Game harder than most men. I guess it’s a sick repayment for centuries of patriarchic domination in this silly silly game of L.O.V.E.
So brothers, beware of the honey in her voice, she knows the effect it has on you and her choice of its use is what separates the wives from the slags.
The next time you get a call and your girl is driving you bonkers with her smooth talk, you’d better get an “I love you” to validate the conversation.
If you don’t, then dang, YOU’VE BEEN RUN MOTHERF***ER!
I’m here to tell you beloved reader that it is neither in her gait nor in her curves that this ‘power’ resides. Oh no, the truth is much more sinister…
A woman’s power over a man resides in her voice, or rather, a voice which she may use for good, or alternatively, evil (by a man’s standard anyway, think baking classes, shoe shopping and having to carry her handbag). I wish I could put your minds at ease and tell you that most women use their Voice for good, but I’d be lying horrifically. I have seen more vixens use this power to manipulate men than I’ve seen them use spermicide, and they use it a lot. Some of my case studies have included one young lady who loved nothing more than instigating an argument; throwing a tantrum and then pouting until her man crawled back (without any visible testes of course). And here’s the scary thing, it didn’t stop there, she would make these men grovel for days, if not weeks. But hey, *hats off*, it’s an ability and well, she’s a champ.
I know some okes would beg to differ, they claim that the mind-f*** is simply an extension of Game Running but if you’re a girl, you know it’s so much more than that. A woman’s way of running game isn’t direct; it’s about running circles around a guy until he hasn’t the slightest clue of which way to turn. And after you daze your prey you don’t attack, you sneak up on him and knock him out with that voice of honey. Once he’s yours, once he’s oblivious to every other piece of ass, you can use your voice for anything you’d like.
On the other end of the spectrum are the girls who used to run Game so hard that they should have had their gender verified and have never used the voice BUT have been knocked out cold and don’t even know what Game is anymore. This is the woman whose honey is oozed without restraint and more importantly is unintentional, just a reaction to the bass lines that give her heart palpitations.
I think a lot of people expect me to now call the former woman a slut and the latter a ‘real’ woman but honestly, I still have mad respect for women who can run Game harder than most men. I guess it’s a sick repayment for centuries of patriarchic domination in this silly silly game of L.O.V.E.
So brothers, beware of the honey in her voice, she knows the effect it has on you and her choice of its use is what separates the wives from the slags.
The next time you get a call and your girl is driving you bonkers with her smooth talk, you’d better get an “I love you” to validate the conversation.
If you don’t, then dang, YOU’VE BEEN RUN MOTHERF***ER!
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Chilled To The Soul
tired as a dog. worked to the bone. stubborn as a donkey? lazy as a snail...
ah yes, and how long has it been since these fleeting glimpses of my inner workings have been typed out by my now unbitten fingernails? it has been longer than a minute. in fact, it has been longer than anticipated.
for the few psychedelic dreamers (Nathan, that's you) who read my blog posts and actually like them, do not be afraid, i am still punk as fuck, still raging against one and all. what is ever so scary is this mellow-ness that i exude now, thanks to better company i assume...or better...vibes?
regardless, for the first time in my somewhat (scoff) uneventful life i am poised for actual action, not mere speech of such. who would have thought that i, the label whore skateboarder, would be willing to do something worthwhile? my inner rebel is still reeling, i suspect a revolution on its part will be a-rising. the times they are a-changing. thank you Mr. Dylan, i must say, your words hold true for a little while but not the way Iron Maiden does, or Rancid, or Sublime, or Fokof, or NOFX, or The Ramones, or The Sex Pistols, or Stiff Little Fingers, or Splodge...I'll stop now..before i reach my proverbial word count limit. or literal one. my vocab isn't so good some say (molefi, that's your shout out).
winter is chilling me to the soul all over again. i really should be a fan of the Autumn palette, heroine for any decent artist but this wind puts me to sleep so inconveniently. I'll sleep when I'm dead right?
here's to louder noise, and love, and cheesy Blink 182. I'll throw in a skateboard, a Lakers kit and a pair of Sennheisers. and perhaps a joint. depends on my stress level. depends on my company. depends on whether i decide to wrap up this post or not.
wink wink.
ah yes, and how long has it been since these fleeting glimpses of my inner workings have been typed out by my now unbitten fingernails? it has been longer than a minute. in fact, it has been longer than anticipated.
for the few psychedelic dreamers (Nathan, that's you) who read my blog posts and actually like them, do not be afraid, i am still punk as fuck, still raging against one and all. what is ever so scary is this mellow-ness that i exude now, thanks to better company i assume...or better...vibes?
regardless, for the first time in my somewhat (scoff) uneventful life i am poised for actual action, not mere speech of such. who would have thought that i, the label whore skateboarder, would be willing to do something worthwhile? my inner rebel is still reeling, i suspect a revolution on its part will be a-rising. the times they are a-changing. thank you Mr. Dylan, i must say, your words hold true for a little while but not the way Iron Maiden does, or Rancid, or Sublime, or Fokof, or NOFX, or The Ramones, or The Sex Pistols, or Stiff Little Fingers, or Splodge...I'll stop now..before i reach my proverbial word count limit. or literal one. my vocab isn't so good some say (molefi, that's your shout out).
winter is chilling me to the soul all over again. i really should be a fan of the Autumn palette, heroine for any decent artist but this wind puts me to sleep so inconveniently. I'll sleep when I'm dead right?
here's to louder noise, and love, and cheesy Blink 182. I'll throw in a skateboard, a Lakers kit and a pair of Sennheisers. and perhaps a joint. depends on my stress level. depends on my company. depends on whether i decide to wrap up this post or not.
wink wink.
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