Oh Shit Son!!!

I have an almost backed bag, a little cash, a one-way ticket to Oakland, and hope, and 2 hours before I leave the house for my flight. Oh, and of course I got Ambien for the flight.

I have not the slightest clue as to what will happen from here on out, but this feeling of uncertainty brings me back to the only other time in life that no one is ever fully cognizant of its ramifications. The time I am referring to is the loss of innocence--losing virginity. This is truly one of the only times, if not the premier event, that you have NO clue on what it all means. You know how Steve Carell in The 40-year Old Virgin is so productive before he has sex? Far be it from me, but it makes you wonder how different life would be without sex. Life actually starts when you loss your virginity. Everything unfolds and accordingly falls into play simply because you had sex for the first time. Alcohol consumption is founded upon sex, as is war, children books, and paganism.

Really take a moment to not only reflect on what I am trying to get at, but use your own personal narrative. I don't want to write too much on this, I am feeling lazy I won't lie. But losing one's virginity opens the world up in so many ways. Literally everything you do is a chain reactions stemming from initial intercourse.

Done?

Whatever I Have Lost (Ch.5)

Chapter 5

In there. The beginning is a dry heave. I hate that shit and already did a little of that earlier today. I hate to repeat shit that’s not that tight; so all you ladies that think I like to break hearts it not that. I just don’t want to repeat shit that’s…I love you. Now I’m in there. It starts to flow like my freestyle—fluid but not quite what you want, at least at that particular time. I can say it. The hottest might annoy those who choose to stay cold. To each their own but to me life’s a poem. Approximately three separate occasions took place. Pink with chunks of white. I woke up with Taco Truck grinning like the girl you know shouldn’t have stayed the night. Actually she shouldn’t have been the night but if I can bring a smile to friends’ faces with a story its all glory. And so it goes for most the troop with tropes. Either way maybe consuming the food of Los Angeles, Mexico explains the dye of Valentine’s Day purged as my collegiate summation.

It burns. There has been quite the unusual gap between expulsions in my life, which is welcomed but does that mean I haven’t been on my job? Throw up brings the mind to three destinations. First, the countless nights back home in NY, using cabs as British women in my bed and throwing up on/in them. In them? I just pulled the two-for-one insight into my life. Nah, not in them. But Brooklyn go hard. And yeah I’ve thrown up on a girl one night and by the morning there was no evidence. So peculiar that she began to think it didn’t happen. I feel bad about that one. Second, a close friend during college would usually get too fucked up at our parties—most parties—then proceed to crucify biology (and physics as there is a reversal of space and time) for the next day. The sounds were wretched. Lastly, another friend’s girlfriend-at-the-time threw up in a bag and hyped up its weight in gold, beige, or off-white. She won a lot of respect that night. She was hilarious. Who really screams “Feel this shit!” as they sit sick on a couch, slightly hunched over but upright enough to let you know it’s all good. Paper or plastic? It was paper because we hit up Trader Joe’s for the upscale nutrition, downscaled price of wine, and breads that may or may not already be molding.

Not to have another aside or anything but… THIS couch is cut from a different cloth; a weathered cloth. The couch this girlfriend rejoiced on is the bouncer of the backyard. Imagine: the two couches mentioned thus far are in the living room. If hell can be raised indoors then the Devil lets his dog roam outside when it gets too big for the house. This couch has never seen better days. I have, both had sex and not had sex by this couch. Once was a multi-hour hump session; who has dry sex in the rain? The second time I actually fucked someone and that was just as traumatic. Not the sex, but what brought me there was my favorite player and 2006 MVP, Dirk Nowitzki, losing in the first round to Golden State. Most of my friends are either from the Bay Area or like to see my depressed. These circumstances led me to sex. The couches are what I say they are. And they second all of these notions.

As I knew when I would throw up, I already considered the irony but this expected foreshadow (i.e. super consciousness) does not coax the mind. While brushing teeth I foresaw my displeasure with cleaning a mouth simply to throw up in it. I didn’t stop brushing because you never know if that buzzer-beater 3-point shot is going to drop or not. I mean I know and so do many clutch players but we all have doubts. So, I’m finishing up the reflection of 4-years flushed down a toilet. My tongue surveys to taste the ghost town of freshness. One would put a quote to bring it home but fuck that, we all know what a thrown up mouth tastes like, throw up. I’m a Crest kid so I have a little bit of sparkle left, and with that I have decided not to re-brush my teeth. We got other remedies.

Labor Day!!! Lick A Shot Pon' Dem.

Came home to house smelling dank as fuck. As I turn my head 'round the corner I see my father sitting on the couch in the living room with my mother. He says, "Don't interrupt our puff puff party." I looked at my mother sternly and said, "You better not have been smoking." He replies, "Smoking like your little sister doesn't smoke." To which I continued my gaze unto her soul and stated, "You better not have been not smoking like my little sister."

My moms doesn't smoke but we all do. She better not!

But really...what if the Devil looked like this. And his name was Enrique but everyone and God called him Gay Gary.

First Satuday of College Football!!!!!

This picture is of a place in Kalimpong, Darjeeling District, West Bengal, India. This is trash. Know what else is trash? Besides The Knicks, hipsters/Williamsburg, and no sex on the first night? The game. Not like the rapper, Game, but the hip-hop game. Everyone knows this, so I'm not stating anything new. Yet, Shay and I were having a discussion over our weekly Saturday blunt brunch about the hip-hop game and how its full of biters. Now, most hip-hop critics hate the game right now because of the content. Others, hate it because its old--made of old people and stale. All these are true, but we're talking about the fact that the game features a lot people jackin' beats, stealing hooks and gimmicks. Its absurd. All you have to do is hear some cat's shit, bite it, and you'll get radio play. By biitng someone else, you start a trend. Its really just a trend of biters.

Okay, so I have been asked multiple times to address a particular matter. I feel that the picture I have taken above, as well as the MoMa endorsed fine/post-modern/Japanese Hibiscus infused art below, fits the mold in which I will also lay this matter out. Bad weaves and saggy titties.
To be honest, I know they are horrible but I didn't know it was an issue to address in an offline, non-interent blog arena. I have grown in a household where every summer I went on vacation and was to bring my Dad back a vulgar--usually sexually vulgar--t-shirt. From these t-shirts, as a young boy, probably staring around 8 years-old, I know about 30 different types of breast. I have supplemented that completely gender perpetuating statement by way of experience with various types as well. I'm rabbling and I haven't even gotten started. Bad weaves are disrespectful. They disrespect the person and their perceived sense of self. They disrespect the profession of hairstyling. But they disrespect the viewer most importantly. I don't like to be disrespected and I especially don't wish to be disrespected while you disrespect yourself as well. Then we're all fucked.

Saggy breasts on the other hand are not disrespectful. They are not intentionally harmful. Its just embarrassing. I don't even feel comfortable talking about this, and I won't. As I said before, I have been asked multiple times to speak on these issues. By a girl. If you asked.

This Is Why People Pray

So, B-Fal asked me: "What would it be like if the dog who stole your soul looked like this...Whoa!!
To say the least, I could only think of two scenarios that could spawn such a sight. The first thought that came to mind is under the assumption that the dog looked like this BEFORE stealing my soul. Were that to be the case then I really would be dead because this beast is only of burdens. Most representations of the Grim Reaper depict a cloaked skeleton but if all dogs go to heaven then this bitch is most likely to be what's under the hood.

Now, the second idea is more my speed because I can be tangential with it. So if the dog that stole my soul first looked like the smug-faced little rascal from post of old and then turned into said Tales From The Crypt above, that would mean I have done too many fucked up things in my life. Some say animals don't have a soul. I believe they do but for the sake of hilarity were the shih-tzu to not have one, and then harbor mine, my soul would undoubtedly be corrupt. In short, my soul has proverbial rabies. Yeah, Akrag and Da Team did it big but I don't think I'm the worse. Honestly, my soul would look like this...I mean formerly agile but was eating good for a minute; that lion-esque mane hints to prestige and decorum; standing on the American flag like the true O.G. I am. Also, that shit's in the hospital trying to rehabilitate itself. That's like what my girl is doing for me: taking me and shaping me up out of my old ways.

But as I write this I just realized that while I caught eye contact with the dog, its not like I was only paying for my sins. Baby cakes was there as well, and though I'll sacrifice for her maybe I'm not all bad. Yet, I damn sure don't want any of these shits to be her soul. I do know a couple of ladies that no doubt have the soul of the gnarly dog. Haha, name six you know and forward this to 10 friends. If they send you six different ones back you'll have good luck and know that you didn't sleep with the same chicks and probably don't have the same STD's. That's what forwards should really be used for.

Suns Out; Guns Out

Drank that Crystal straight from the bottle last night. Then I got a wholewheat bagel with sesame seeds, lox, cream cheese, tomatoes, and onions at around 6:30am. Drove home with Jah, smoked a spliff. He left. I went to bed.

Doin' It. Pardon.

Dream Low: Ambien Low Low Low Low Low!

Holla at the promo Ambien (Zolpidem Tartrate)! Let's get on one.


Yo, I am melting right now in a blissful
Ambien sauce or broth;
its satisfaction when the lights go off.
Nearly a floorboard set and i'm easy.
Coasting in a drug haze, prescription store--
like a kid's store--its a drug maze.
Bump bump and the drums play;
heartbeat gets lower.
What I told ya...
Ambien takes life out of any soldier
caterpillar, millipede, centipede
we'll go as far as Autumn's leaves
Falling
Sliding across skies beats tip-toeing

The Dog Who Stole My Soul

Long time no peek,

So I was sitting in the back of a Jeep Grand Cherokee. The fact that this is one of my favorite cars--why, I have no real idea--has nothing to do with anything. What also has nothing to do with anything is that the owner of the car, my girlfriend, likes the older, squared models better. I detest them; these differences are further away from anything relevant than I thought, but they are funny because she drives a car I love but likes the older models WAY better, go figure.

Honestly, the shit I am about to recap is so fucking funny that I have to delay. If you would have seen the look on this Shih-Tzu's smug little face you would have felt as the title presumes I did. Yes, presumes. I mean I felt, and still do feel, as though my soul was taken but I won't know 'til Judgment Day. So...we planned to have sex in the backseat of the Jeep to make an episode. Of course I'm down--I am retarded. She on the other hand is the woman I love, so whether or not she needed convincing means nothing as well, she's down.

We drive to the train station and decide to pull into a parking space so I can pull up to her bumper. (You may be thinking this is at night). You are so fucking wrong!!! This is at 3:30pm on a Thursday. All kinds of sunlight in this bitch. And this bitch happens to be a small Westchester Metro-North parking lot. We are not even all the way in the back of the parking lot because its broad daylight and there are people working there. The previous sentence conjures up the statement "this sounds like a bad idea," but when two people are already hot and bothered they don't bother to think beyond the hot.

I'm butt-naked with shorts and pants around my ankles, sitting in the middle seat. I'm butt-naked because I took my shirt off. It was as hot and humid as hell would most likely be during the NYC summer vacations of Satan. We had the A/C pumping harder than we were but to no avail it was ridiculous. Also, I was blasting Múm's "Yesterday Was Dramatic - Today is OK," because I get down to an assortment of things simply to keep the elitism on max. Now it goes like this, baby girl believes we are in a good spot because we are both looking in opposite directions and have a 360-degree view as a unit. But of course once we start kissing our eyes close. When I realized this, after about a minute or two of said activity, I opened my eyes to see the car left of us beginning to pull out. She opens are eyes at my "Oh Shit" response and repeats the phrase. We laugh at our stupidity and continue to get stupider.

I'm in there, and that means we are Clipse Grindin' for a hot second to only be stopped by my second "Oh Shit!" Yo, I look up to see an old Spanish Dude directly in front the windshield. We caught eye contact that was quickly canceled on both of our behalves. Baby girl hops off the dick like a rabbit and throws a towel over my crotch as if I'm still not butt-naked and dude couldn't have seen my erect dick between hop and throw. She's freaking out and I can't even begin to explain how funny this all was until it got worse.

I, because I am facing the front, am still looking at the dude to realize he was walking his dog. Who walks a dog in a parking lot? Whatever. He is walking his dog and honestly is quite respectful of these two young lover's retardation. He refuses to look back. But his fucking dog on the other hand!! Yo, dude walks his route in no rush maybe to keep things under wraps, maybe to get a peep at me doing my do. I have no idea, but as soon as he gets to the other car, looking the opposite direction, his dog looks back at the car. HIS DOG LOOKS BACK AT THE CAR TO STARE AT ME THROUGH THE PASSENGER WINDOW WITH THE MOST DISAPPOINTED LOOK A DOG OR HUMAN OR ANY LIVING THING CAN GIVE. What kind of dog has the keenest sense to look back at a car he or she just probably pissed on to find some young ones trying to have sex. The dog and I locked eyes WAY longer than the owner and I did. We locked eyes so hard that I am writing this. After a good 10seconds of staring the dog turned and walked away. I was appalled at the dog for its awareness and myself for being disciplined by a dog. Shit was wild. I could only turn to my girl and say the dog just stole my soul. She of course is just freaking out about sex and doesn't care that her boyfriend just lost the essence of morality, life, and reincarnation.

But anyway...

Selfish...Meet in the Middle.

Anti-Climax

Mu just asked, "What is the anti-climax?" He posited that Pound Town, from the female perspective, would be the anti-Christ of passion. I can see this as so. Pound Town is the hood of sex. I'm talking East St. Louis or the South Bronx in the 70's--a place you could only admire in the sense of its resiliency to still house living creatures. Not humans, an intellectual wouldn't disrespect consciousness like that. Roaches. Now, I will say that I love to take people to Pound Town so I don't know how much I wish to delve into the idea of it being counter productive to the sex I'm laying down as pleasure. Yet, it is a spot that can only be reached through sheer ignorance to love as a tango, for it is a selfish trip.

Pound Town is dominance incognito. Well its not quite hidden, a dude is trying to ride you out and there are no mistakes about duration, velocity, and lack of eye contact. However, I've always walked that long green mile with the idea that no matter what, she must be getting her fill. Even if you do not want to go to Disney World, you have to enjoy some part of it. The turkey wings sold like cotton candy? With all this said, at the end of the day, there is no semblance of passion or even enjoyment from the male save the enjoyment one gets from murder. It took me a couple of anxiety attacks by the woman I love to understand that Pound Town in no way is close to a precipice of passion. Even a nympho is not trying to get the Spanish Armada up in her channel all the live long day. Take your time fellas. Don't take an ugly girl to meet you mother and don't take a girlfriend to Pound Town.

As for the guy's perspective of an anti-climax? Obviously outside of the whole star fish bullshit that some chicks do; I mean some bullshit! I would have to say the anti-climax is the expectation he should always be in control. If love/sex is a two-way street then make me stay in my lane. Show me the way to go. Yeah I'll get there but sometimes its nice to have mapquest to find the shortest route, or at least a confirmation that the next left is the right left. When right is left what am I left to right? Nothing!

Its a huge turn off when a women seems to be guarding the P-stripes, then lets you in expecting to be taken care off. If you want me to do everything then why the fuck did I have wait so long? That's a selfishness in its own right. So, the anti-climax in general is selfishness.

I popped an Ambien before this thinking I would be fucked up during this post. I am sadly disappointed.

Whatever I Have Lost (Chs.3&4)

Chapter 3

I am in the bathroom brushing my teeth and this is always a not-so-good-feeling-almost-hurtful-feeling the mornings after I drink a lot. But not just a lot, enough to warrant sleeping on the couch because only in that drunken stupor can this couch seem special. Retarded special and nostalgic like the worst kiss I’ve ever had. Come to think of it I can’t remember the worst kiss. Its 3:19 a.m. and maybe after I sleep it might come to me. I feel real bad now. I was kind of nauseous when I woke but now I know I will throw up. When I think of a gag reflex I am immediately taken back, in that Ghost-of-Christmas-Past-way, to freshman year of college. A girl threw up of this guy’s dick. You take it from there. But right now I am trying not to throw up and am thinking of all the times I have not thrown up brushing my teeth whilst feeling exactly like this. Almost exactly like this. I know I will throw up and I know when it will happen. I will not stop it because I woke up on the fucking couch today and I am going to graduate the school Obama shuns. If he only knew I’m a baller and he could have been one too if he knew me.
I go into my room and start to get ready for the struggle and hurt. Deciding to put on a white, short-sleeved button down shirt, I can’t decide the tie to accompany it but I know it doesn’t matter yet because I must see what Rooney is wearing.
“What are you going to wear?”
He answers and I realize that I am my own person and must do the same. But different. Bright yellow hi-top sneakers, new Nike Oxy Lacrosse shorts, and my favorite “Welcome to Brooklyn” shirt with a huge black middle finger because I’m private school thuggin’ for Heaven’s Ghetto. Even with that shit they still can’t see me; I can’t even feel my face! I’m fresh to death and that death is for my parents. They hated it. The funny thing is that when I finally saw them that day my mother commented on how she could point out all my friends: a group of kids dressed as if it were not their graduation. But how does that look?

Chapter 4

Okay, so I’m fitted and now retrieving the anonymity: cape and gown. Heavy as fuck, I might add, as if Occidental forgot its meaning and we weren’t in So Cal where the sun is a registered sex offender. Turning the swag on to be one with the nausea, I make it back to the pride lands, sit down and wonder if some dudes are going to call to take some shots before IT happens. It ain’t the toothbrush that kills. Seagram’s baby! They do. Its my people and we are about to consummate the day before it happens—that sneak attack. Four roll through and seven makes the crowd in the kitchen. Having little to no clean apparatuses, the momentous toast is one staggered like a relay race for those who jump the gun. Get it how you live. I take a pull from this fine New Amsterdam handle. On some real shit, they live up to their advertisement: you can really drink it straight. I mean here is the part where I throw up but it was long overdue. Really on that “its not you its me” thing. And when chicks say that it really doesn’t make sense. It never will. Its bullshit. But I get it.
I’m done pulling. Now, I was one of the farthest in the kitchen and must past people to occupy the nearest bathroom. I tell them I’m going to throw up. The response: “Really?”
“Yeah, hold up.”

As Or Like Us

Who can bring you a green onion, yellow--dare I say sweet vidalia--onion, and we got that purp--red onion.

Onions make you cry because they have a soul. The slice of an onion, like the slice into any living being, promotes pain. Depending on the depth of the incision, and the threshold of the victim, tears can be drawn. That sounds creepy but bear with. When others die we cry for them, or for us, but in both instances we cry because of pain.

Onions are also blind. Some may say they don’t have eyes but if that were true they wouldn’t cry. But they do cry. Onions tears cannot be seen, simply because we don’t know where onion eyes are. If we knew we would see them cry. But people don’t believe in the onion so the onion strikes back.

Moral guilt is the game played. The unseen tears of an onion are manifested into the tears we cry when we cut them. As we puncture the skin of an onion, and subsequently its soul, we punctured our own as well. Self-inflicted pain is the worse kind of pain.

The 4 Points: Barack Obama, Occidental College, Scott Jeffers Jr., and Hennessy

On the train going to meet a friend. Just smoked a spliff before leaving the house. Listening to some music. This all led me to think about what makes clocks tick, what creates the buzz of a refrigerator, or ball sweat. Its the bigger-than-Bermuda-Triangle-vortex: the Trinidad & Tobago Square, that exists between a president, some dude, drank, and the college founded in 1887 by the founders of Princeton (don't quote me).

Word, I'm not gonna go all into some narcissistic diatribe but I was chillin' with some peoples in BK. We on Nostrand. We out here. And we went to the liquor store, copped a bottle. This shit was Hennessy for Obama. Yeah I know its been out for sometime but I didn't know that until now. This is real shit that you experience--not just look up on the internet. Real Life. We out here. So we postin'. Getting blasted. I look at the bottle, read it, and proceed to do what should be done. I call my little sister and tell her what I'm sipping on on the block. Crazy. I mean, commendable due to proceeds for a greater cause, but through alcohol. Come on. We out here.

In short, Obama went to Occidental but I graduated from there. If its too hot get out the kitchen cause I'm cooking pasta and sipping wine, watching someone roll the blunt likes its a T.V. He doesn't talk about us like he needs to. If he knew what it was about, all the fun. All the ladies. All the mountains. Dance Parties? Ice luge? Red phones? Mu gotta pink phone. He's black and so am I. I'm from New York, I could have taught him about heat. When life gives you kitchens, cook crack.

He became a president. What happens when you finish in the school you chose? He chose Occidental College. No one forced him. Why not finish. Huh? I did. Where you at B. I did it cause you didn't Obama. I'm picking up the slack. I did it for us. All that planetary ballin' and stellar pimpin'. So high I saw me because I'm so high. Hook me up with like $10,000,000 and a book deal. I'll call it even.

Mission Statement

Yo,

I figured out what this venture is going to be:

1) All great things, memorable pieces of literature, have homes in hearts because they are stories not about you but touch you as such. When you read a novel, it takes you to an unknown simply because it is not focusing on your life. But as you read you begin to draw comparisons to your personal narrative, building a nostalgic vehicle that drives imagination but seems so believable--because it is. I'm trying to bring you that shit. I wish to harness all the self-reflective notions in people and have them find themselves with/in whatever I throw out. Particularly, the random, hyper-sexual, and hotness I'm spilling on the counter like milk.


2) I want this to be the first blog not on the internet. Like detached from the actual internet. I don't like this shit but what if I CAN like it. Ever had internet in real life? Real Life. Nah. This is not a synopsis of the internet. You come here to see some shit that happened in real life but 2-D. I want there to be pictures but not shit I can find and paste. I might have to draw them except for some shit that's practical to use. I doubt I could draw all them. I just lied. We've cleared the air, but I'll draw a lot. Find novelty and keep it.

P-Stripes.

This has nothing to do with the novella, which is a project I will never finish but should provide some enjoyment. This is some old shit but since I'm starting a blog I might as well go hard from the get go. P-stripes are like monsters under the bed: you don't see 'em but you know they're there. When there is a turning on of the bright lights, ladies like to cover up like ostriches. Both sexes, mull this over. I guess there are D-stripes as well but I guess I don't think about that. Let it go. Not the least hippieish but definitely about Love Your Body Day. This is feminist. Let the sun shine in so all can get tanned in your glory.
I don't wish for intentions to become nebulous and us lose the chance to connect. This blog will not have such raunchiness all the time; its supposed to be mellow but I have to fill it up so that the page isn't so lonely. We'll grow. I'll holla at the emo, dark side of the moon soon. But this shit is hilarious! Who makes that?

Whatever I Have Lost (Chs.1&2)

This is what I've been doing. Oh we in here.

Chapter 1

He barks now. In the middle of the night. I don’t know, or better yet, I can’t remember if this has happened since I’ve been home. It has been 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Right now I am counting from a day I don’t quite know. Guessing the number of days but not actually figuring it out. Now I must go: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday… I am back on track. It has been almost a week. Technically a week as today is Wednesday morning. It is 2:34, am, and I began writing this 3 minutes ago. He has stopped since then so I can say that I have lost that awe-inspiring inspiration, yet this is something I have been meaning to do every summer. Only once have I actually done something I planned to do in the summer with regards to writing. I never finished. It was a screenplay titled “Adolescent Preoccupation.” That should sum up everything. Pretentious synopsis and long story short as my endeavor, I stopped due to a blown laptop light. I had 16 pages of dialogue.

Chapter 2

It is 8:20 am. I am tired as fuck. Yes, this is not the same day. Here the actual writing begins. The day of my graduation I woke up on my couch. The couch. The Hazelwood couch of filth, Franken scents, and mur. I have seen awkward lap dances given on that couch. Ha, I have seen a lap dance-off between this couch and the other couch. The other couch. I have found a condom wrapper in that couch. A condom wrapper left over from two friends. Two friends of mine that met that night. That night. Two friends of mine that met that night and fucked on my couch. Not really mine but the Hazelwood other couch. But back to the couch where Satan’s midwife got her first paycheck. Yes, this couch is what I say it is. The walls can’t talk because they have their mouths duct taped with red rubber balls inserted before sealing the deal. Those red balls have remnants of flour. Flour that is both fresh off the boat of the bag and flour that has been processed and conceived in bake goods. And because of all this the couches speak for themselves. They speak volumes.
The couch of Monte Cristo has housed friends. Friends named Trial and Tribulation. It has also housed a friend who made out with a girl I eventually started to fuck. Yes, the couch is what I it is. Like that; I brought it back. I woke up on this couch and realized that with disgust and Taco Truck at my feet. I am graduating college today and I start off the start of my life on the couch that leads to bastard children orphaned and lodged in cribs of gastric acid and latex highchairs. Even my sex is full of poetic allusions. Yet, this couch is my crutch this morning and this morning I graduate.
My little sister is in the bathroom for a little longer than I would like but this gives me time to lie in the pasture a little longer than I would like. That’s alright with me because what’s done is done. I have already slept here and have woken up to realize the mistake. Surprise cannot happen twice, that is a sin from Alzheimer’s Box. As I lie, I remember again that I am graduating; there is Taco Truck at feet for the second time in a time too short for this to not be a problem. Also it’s 8:20 a.m. and I did not go to sleep too long ago. I feel kind of bad but it will get worse.