A'int no thang for a G with the bling
Another “Spring Break” has come and gone with little to show for it. Perhaps it stems from my habitual homebodiness (making up words is fun!), but I’ve always envied the people who go off and get to do exciting things over breaks. As an undergrad, it always seemed like people I knew took roadtrips through the American southwest, visited far off relatives, swam in the Gulf of Mexico, or flew to the Bahamas. One girl I knew even took a week and flew to Switzerland because she could. I always packed up my computer and some books, drove home to Topeka, and spent a week with my parents. If they’d have left my hall open over Spring Break, I wouldn’t have even left Lawrence.
Ruminating on this led me to a startling conclusion. It’s probably neither as startling nor as shocking to others as it is to me, but I am astoundingly boring. I am quite lacking in the dangerousness and spontaneity that women seem to go for these days. Now, I realize that I have some good characteristics. I can bake. I can cook decent meals. I am a fair hand at interior decorating and flower arrangement. I’m an attentive listener and can (at times) throw out sincerely touching and considerate statements of my feelings for the people about which I care. Many years back, a high school teacher of mine (A.P. U.S. history teacher = foxxy with a double ‘x’), even defended me against a bunch of jocks in my class, who were laughing at the fact that I couldn’t get a date to my Junior prom, saying that I was exactly the kind of guy that a lot of women were looking for.
But being a nice (if somewhat absent-minded) guy doesn’t get you all that far, really, and for the same reasons that all of the most-sought-after girls at that same high school hung out with me (but wouldn’t date me): I’m safe.
So I’ve decided that I should drop some of my steady deliberate-ness and become a little more dangerous. I’ve ruled out getting a motorcycle because I’m not a fan of high speeds and the noise could damage my eardrums. I went out and looked at a leather jacket, but decided that I didn’t like how coarse it felt and decided to stay with my suede one which is much softer. I don’t have enough money to buy a fancy sports car and I am really not a fan of their low gas mileage anyway, so that’s out too. Plus, they usually only seem to have 2 doors and I’m a bigger fan of four-door sedans.
I was running out of ideas until last night. In the evenings, I usually have music running on my computer for a few hours, and as I lay in bed trying to get to sleep, a song I’d listened to earlier in the night kept running through my head. Finally, I knew I’d have to give in and go turn on my computer so that I could listen to it again.
The song was UGK’s “Like a Pimp.” I have to admit that I have a soft spot in my heart for hardcore and nasty gangsta rap, including a number of songs I have whose titles are probably not appropriate to bring up in polite company. As I dropped the dope rhymes along with Bun B, I suddenly knew what it was that I should do.
I need to become the ghetto gangsta that I keep deep inside. And to y’all what can’t handle it, White Choklit is in the house and he might just be here to stay unless he can find another way to drop the goody-goody routine.
Step into tha flava, yo. Hardcore.
Ruminating on this led me to a startling conclusion. It’s probably neither as startling nor as shocking to others as it is to me, but I am astoundingly boring. I am quite lacking in the dangerousness and spontaneity that women seem to go for these days. Now, I realize that I have some good characteristics. I can bake. I can cook decent meals. I am a fair hand at interior decorating and flower arrangement. I’m an attentive listener and can (at times) throw out sincerely touching and considerate statements of my feelings for the people about which I care. Many years back, a high school teacher of mine (A.P. U.S. history teacher = foxxy with a double ‘x’), even defended me against a bunch of jocks in my class, who were laughing at the fact that I couldn’t get a date to my Junior prom, saying that I was exactly the kind of guy that a lot of women were looking for.
But being a nice (if somewhat absent-minded) guy doesn’t get you all that far, really, and for the same reasons that all of the most-sought-after girls at that same high school hung out with me (but wouldn’t date me): I’m safe.
So I’ve decided that I should drop some of my steady deliberate-ness and become a little more dangerous. I’ve ruled out getting a motorcycle because I’m not a fan of high speeds and the noise could damage my eardrums. I went out and looked at a leather jacket, but decided that I didn’t like how coarse it felt and decided to stay with my suede one which is much softer. I don’t have enough money to buy a fancy sports car and I am really not a fan of their low gas mileage anyway, so that’s out too. Plus, they usually only seem to have 2 doors and I’m a bigger fan of four-door sedans.
I was running out of ideas until last night. In the evenings, I usually have music running on my computer for a few hours, and as I lay in bed trying to get to sleep, a song I’d listened to earlier in the night kept running through my head. Finally, I knew I’d have to give in and go turn on my computer so that I could listen to it again.
The song was UGK’s “Like a Pimp.” I have to admit that I have a soft spot in my heart for hardcore and nasty gangsta rap, including a number of songs I have whose titles are probably not appropriate to bring up in polite company. As I dropped the dope rhymes along with Bun B, I suddenly knew what it was that I should do.
I need to become the ghetto gangsta that I keep deep inside. And to y’all what can’t handle it, White Choklit is in the house and he might just be here to stay unless he can find another way to drop the goody-goody routine.
Step into tha flava, yo. Hardcore.
posted by The Academian | 5:59 PM
5 Comments:
You need a tuffer name than White Chocklit. What about White Ass-Kicker?
It is hard out here for a pimp. Spending all day illin' on tha corner, sippin' tha syrup, and dropping the stones to stack ma papers. Sheeit. Alla player like tha' WC want is to make his benjamins wit'out busting too many caps out ma' brome. Fine honeys be all up in my bizness when they see the green. Damn, girl.
And ain't no way can WC turn his back on what he is. White Choklit got his gangsta name a long time back as an undergraduate, while tryin' to convince his scholarship hall that he'd be a good choice for community service and environmental issues chairperson, yo. A name is like family, and where I's from, you don't play your folks that way. As for the tuffness of the name, MS, it ain't be all about bein' hard. Sometimes, a G gots to be smoove, too.
Tha WC almost broke through the line of 20 posts in a row wit'out the commentary of his peeps from the L-skool. Thought his crew might have been sent up to the pen for small change, and wondered if he'd need to pack an extra clip for a raid on the big house to bust y'all out.
(Oh, and Kansasgirl, Congratulations. How did THAT slip your mind when I asked about your break? I expect stories now about how it all went down.)
True enuff, MMD.
Damn it feels good to be a Gangsta.
And everything's cool in the mind of a gangsta, 'cos Gangsta-ass n!@@as think deep; up 365, yo 24-7, 'cos real Gangsta-ass n!@@as don't sleep.
Nigga.
Me? I know I've been accused of being a Chex Mix racist, but I swear that I pick out the dark chex and the melba toast bits because I don't like how they taste. I can't help it that I want only tasty white and yellow goodness in my snack mix. Maybe it was how I was taught...
Post a Comment
<< Home