N.A.S.A. - Not Always Sure about Anything

What do you muse about when you are no longer angry, sad, miserable, depressed. When you find yourself in that space between the dark and the light - all grey. What do you have to say - you've said everything there is to say; or have you.

My musings have changed from a mere two and a half months ago and I sometimes miss the darker side - the rancour, the melancholy, my paralyzing neurosis, my funk. But I do not miss the emotions synonymous with these musings, but one can not exist without the other. A good friend said to me my darker musings are evidence that I bleed; and damn did my blood flow over the last few months - I almost went into shock from the hemorrhaging. Am I happy - I am not sure, perhaps more unsure of how my happiness is defined. But, I can say un-equivocally, I am in a better space than a few short months ago. I am in a good space. Getting to this space, this grey area, was interesting to say the least. It is a journey I do not intend to repeat.

The space between where I was and where I could be is what keeps me moving forward; leaving the past in the dark and racing towards the light.

I am not sure what this light will bring, but anything is better than the solitude of darkness. And if darkness is ever to return, I know now how to find the light.

Shopping Sheep

Another month and another pay day brings another ritual of the sheepdom - grocery shopping. I sometimes enjoy grocery shopping but more often than not, (and I highly suspect I'm not the only man who feels this way) it is as exciting as watching paint dry.



My greatest enjoyment or amusement rather can be found in the many faces of the men dragged to the supermarket ( silently kicking and screaming) by their women. The looks on their faces, priceless, expressive (they tell a story - with very few lines); they say things like - "what the fuck woman, hurry up." and "what the fuck did I get myself into here." Somewhere in the minds of some women this is something the men should do, should want to do (like that scene from that movie with Jennifer Ainston where she tells her guy - "I want you to want to do the dishes" - really, who the fuck wants to do dishes, you do it cause you must) and should like doing. Clearly some women have read one two many Harlequinn novels or just forgot to send us men the memo on how we should enjoy the experience of shopping; it's quality time.


You see these men slumped over the shopping carts, labouring down every aisle, and with every shelf, every rotation of the wheel, the cart becomes more burdensome. The poor man's face gets longer, contorted by the bleats, his patience wanes. But the woman is seemingly oblivious to this and attempts to have conversation (seriously, is she freaking kidding) or none at all (which we would prefer sometimes anyway); with practically every step something is added to the cart and the poor bastard can't wait to get to the bloody cashier, pay his hard earned cash and have this ordeal ended.


It's amusing to see the various expressions and depictions of misery on the faces of men at that time of the month; I think some would prefer dealing with PMS than the supermarket.

The pursuit of happy people

It's amazing how thoughts interrupt (or perhaps it's that it adds to the almost programmed) routines of our lives. A curious thought occurred to me while I stood outside hanging out the laundry; it stemmed from an earlier conversation with my wife about a more tumultuous time in our relationship. It was a thought about happiness or the notion of being happy; how happiness can radiate from someone, their appearance and disposition altered.

People tend to gravitate more towards happy people. There is just something about that energy they exude; it intrigues, attracts, stimulates, and other people seem to want to experience and feed off that energy.

Then my thoughts drifted a bit, somewhere between then and now - that troublesome time, and I thought; it is so much harder and less interesting to pretend to be happy. The facade of happiness is tiresome and sad; it sinks you deeper into a state of discontent, melancholy, neurosis. Digging yourself out of the cesspit of emotional feces is difficult, but once you have managed to claw your way out, there is no looking back.

Pretense of any kind is quite strenuous; but honesty of emotions has its own idiosyncrasies; honesty believe it or not is not always the best policy. So, do you straddle the line of honesty and pretense or do you be honest with yourself and say fuck the pretense.

Mata Hari

Femme Fatale, a friend of mine in conversation once told me she was no femme fatale. From the context I gathered the meaning of the phrase . But, for some reason unbeknownst to me the phrase crossed my mind yesterday, and curiosity got the better of me so I googled it (I love the internet).

There was a pretty detailed history on Femme Fatale and a short bit on L'Homme Fatale. Having read the information on Femme Fatale, it occurred to me that I've encountered my fair share. Not in the most literal and thank the north wind, not the most mortal meaning of Femme Fatale, but I have come across a few of those "ladies".

I've over the years allowed myself to fall victim to the guile of some of these vixens wrapped in women's skin; and with each experience I lose a bit of myself, my perception becomes a bit more altered, I become more bitter, resentful, untrusting, callous. Yes I allowed it - distracted by the euphoric sentiments at the time; and I chose my reaction to the ill-effects of these vixens - my spirit ravaged by the deception of the hallucinogenic state induced by my willing submission to the wiles of these femme fatales. It's safer to be numb or at least semi-numb. Recently I was told by a girl on the cusp of womanhood that men don't hurt or love like women. That notion, like the notion of love at first sight, is fucking ridiculous.

Men make a conscious decision to react differently to guard themselves and more often than not the indifference is nothing more than a facade. It's from years of personal and vicarious experience. We love just as deeply, we hurt, we bleed, we're not sub-human (don't believe the shit you've been fed).

My encounters with these femme fatales over my life time (albeit short) has brought much heart ache and many tears - mine and others. I have shed a few (or not so few) tears over the years. On the first such occasion I broke down in her presence, and as I cried (snotty nose and all) over the wounds she had inflicted she held me in her arms while the cold wind blew off the ocean and pretended to comfort me. That was over ten years ago. Since then I have had my tearful moments in the solitude of my room, my car or my office. Weeping for the notion of love lost, or pain caused in the pursuit of the mirage of happiness.

There is plenty scar tissue around this heart of mine, it still functions (barely), but it is not as naive; it's not impenetrable or impervious to harm (I'm not superman, I could only wish; but then again what would a life without pain be); but many emotions have been evicted. I am not certain what has replaced them.

I am sure before I have faithfully departed this life I will encounter many other femme fatales and I am sure I won't possess all the anti-venom required to survive unscathed, but like the times before I will see another dawn; maybe not as strong or even recognisable, but survive I must.

My past while it may torment my present, I won't allow it to paralyze my future; my almost happily ever after. Yes my almost happily ever after, mine, because I am not responsible for anyone else's.

Tripping over the universal mind fucking

I feel like that dude from the Godfather sometimes, you know the old dude with the square jaw who talks like he has cotton in his mouth; he had that line - ..."every time I try to get out, they pull me back in..."



It's like the fucking ghost of Christmas past just walked into the room and fucking sucker punched me. What was that, why was that? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUUUUCCCKKK! Am I missing something here, is this screwed up universe trying to tell me something, is this fuck with Earl day and I just didn't get the memo. I speak English and a bit of Creole, I am not competent in sign language. Flipping the bird is about the only sign language I understand. This must be some kind (or not so kind) of joke. If you're up there or around here watching, I'm not laughing.

DAMN IT.

Olay

Hi! That's all that was said, hi, and then the fading sound of foot steps. It's like this fucking game where the man dresses up in shiny spandex costume or some shit like that with a stupid little hat on his head, sword in one hand, red cloth in the other and taunts the damn bull to the loud applause of his adoring deranged fans until he, or they, get tired of taunting the by now infuriated and frustrated bull.



Then with one swift thrust from his sword, penetrates the bull and it comes crashing down hard, gasping, life fleeing from its body - stunned and stiff; and the last memory burnt in the back of its mind as seen through these dark pools for eyes, is the smug face of that motherfucking bull fighter. That mofo, posing, staring him down - thinking "ah! you thought you were big and bad, huh, look how I have you now - shocked huh - speechless - good."


Hi, no bye, nothing, not even a space between, just the thrust of that infernal sword. Hi, and fade to black.

Silencing of the Lamb

Every weekend over the last few months has been somewhere between good - great; with some "fucking mad" sprinkled here and there. Some weekends have had a degree of planning and others none at all, but my god man they have been fabulous.

Have you ever witnessed the life of an animal (your meal) slowly leave its body, through its cries for clemency, its rich red warm blood gushing everywhere. Well I have on more than one occasion, but Sunday I got real up close and personal with my meal.

This is the reason why some people are vegetarians - Hadron :)

The co-executioner sat on the concrete bench staring down the unsuspecting victim, the white sheep with patches of brown; contemplative of the next step while he sharpened his blade, slowly, deliberately, his demeanour composed. The damned sheep unruffled, I think it knew that this day had been pre-ordained by its version of our north wind, and it had seemingly accepted its fate.

It was ushered to the slaughter ground, unintentionally decorated with leaves, shrubs, mother natures factory of oxygen and the dirt from whence it came and to which it would shortly return.

The executioner straddled my meal, clasped its mouth with the weak hand and with the might of the other brought the blade to Mr. sheep's throat. As his arm moved back and forth the sheep initially did not move an inch; but as the blade penetrated the skin it felt the sting of the blade, the gush of warm crimson life leaving its body and hitting the ground, it panicked and screamed (barely). It was only at that point that a reconciliation of its fate and the realisation of the materialisation of that fate came crashing down on its tiny head like a ton of bricks.

Blood everywhere, fading cries, signs of departing life, the last kick of its legs was all that was left of it, my meal. Did it enjoy its time on this wretched earth, did it realise that today I would be consuming it and tomorrow return its unused parts from whence it came through fecal matter? Fuck no, I don't think so.

And there it was, the ease with which life is lost, the ease with which I could witness this act and feel nothing. Not remorse, not nausea, no revolting feelings. Truth be told I found it amusing, entertaining even; and I could not wait to chop it up to pieces, season it and begin the consumption.

It was sought of metaphoric for me watching the slaughter of the sheep; and I thought to myself as I watched this act; the sheep is dead, no more ba ba ba in your muddacunt.

We are in a way like that sheep; we live this life, be it fulfilling or not; we accept kinda that we will not be here forever. But when that time draws near, regardless of how the grim reaper brings it, we are not ready and we try to fight the inevitable with every last breath and ounce of blood.

It's futile, we must all go. Enjoy your life while you still do have it, because we all eventually become food for the universe.

Les Miserable

I wrote this piece some time ago on one of my many notepads, which like many other things in my life are poorly managed. I'm sure I came across it for a reason, I am one who believes that everything in this life happens for a reason; struggle as we may at the point in time to figure out that reason, but in the fullness of time all is revealed.

So here goes:

Tears stream down her face, memories of her lover's embrace, his feel, his scent, they overwhelm her senses - she weeps for the death of her dream. Why did he do that? Why did he have to remind her of these wretched feelings that she has tried so hard to shackle and lock away.

Gently, she wipes away her tears, inhales the life back to her deflated lungs, reshuffles her mental deck of cards and puts on her best mask to face the rest of the world.

Why did she take off her mask for him, why did she let him in? Cracked but not broken she steps out to face her world. No one in her world understands her pain, no one really sees her, the real her, the exposed her.

Random Access Memory

The past never seems to want to stay in the past, the memory of it always lingers in the catacombs of your mind awaiting resurrection, triggered by some innocuous happenstance. Memories of people, things and events are curious though. In your ocean of memories those of the good times seem to be muscular - dense and those of the not so good times corpulent - buoyant.

When the corpulent memories float to the top of your conscious mind they are armed with all the negative emotions; ushered in by solemn wails echoing off the walls of your mind and reverberating through your body, momentarily weakening you, physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. These memories bring on the desire to pop some emotional Novocain or some freaking cymbalta (bring on the cocktail of side effects).

I sometimes wish I could surgically remove specific memories, but then this life that I have come to love would not be so rich; this life I have lived has left me with stories to tell, some happy, some sad, but all meaningful.

The past informs the future, does it; or does it torment the present and paralyse the tomorrow.

Sledge Hammer vs Wall - The space between

I laboured up the stairs to my mom to pick up J a couple days ago, and as I ascended these seventy odd stairs, with each muscle burning step I thought to myself; have I succeeded with breaking down this wall with my huge, heavy sledge hammer, have I gotten over my hurdle, is this Berlin wall still standing, has it been at least cracked.

I'm no longer on this treadmill of emotional recession, circling the stadium ad infinitum; but if I'm being honest with myself, I'm not yet where I want to be. It feels like the wall has fallen and I am standing looking over at the other side reluctant to walk across. But I have enjoyed every swing and every impact of that sledge hammer on that god damn wall. My legs feel like lead; but I'm strong and they raise slowly, but they raise none the less.

As I type this I smile; this is not what I intended to type, I wrote down what I wanted to post first like I usually do; but my writer had other plans (Hadron would laugh at this). Fuck it, I'm ready to walk across, I'm in a much better space. It won't be a straight path with road signs to warn me of danger or point me in the right direction; but I love to walk, so yeah, shoulders square, chest up, head held high, back to the wind, I'm walking on this path, my path, and I'm going to enjoy it.

YEAH! Keep Walking.

Old Shoes

I resurrected this old pair of brown shoes (old in shoe years; it's not even been 1 year since I got them) that I've had sitting in my closet for months. I so loved (yes love, I can more easily attach that word to inanimate objects; they are less complicated) these shoes. When I just got them I wore them practically everyday, they made my old clothes look and feel new, they put an extra bounce in my step; even when it started to show signs of overuse, I still loved those shoes.

My brown, beautiful shoes; I wore it till it broke, then I packed it aside. But I still loved them and missed them, so I never discarded them. Recently I got them fixed, it's no longer new, still creased and scuffed, they feel different now, new in a familiar way.

These old shoes actually got me thinking about people, how they enter our lives and sometimes bring such joy. They walk through our lives, some leaving a greater impression than others, some we treat with care, some we toss aside being indifferent to the contribution they have made, and yet there are some while not actively part of your life they're still there. Out of sight, but never out of mind, always being part of your life.

I always have a hard time throwing away my stuff, I use them till they are so worn out that the right thing to do would be to throw them away; but I develop attachments, we have a history, a story to tell that no one else will understand (like my old pair of three quarter jeans my wife has been trying to throw away for years now, I have had them of over ten years and they are so frayed you can see the pockets) and even though they are no longer usable, I like to have them within my reach, within my memory. Every now and then I would go back to them. They're my old stuff, and I will always want it because it is mine.

People are not possessions, but when a good person enters your life no matter what you go through with that person, how damaged that person is, you should never toss them aside and forget them. Even through the ugliness you can find some beauty.

Bunny Eggs

This recently ended long Easter weekend was the best easter/long weekend I have had in a long time. It was a hell of a lot of fun. I did a movie night on Thursday complete with pizza and beer; woke up late (and by late I mean about 7/8am) Friday, put on my walking clothes and shoes and hit the road. I walked from my home to parts not well known and finally stopped at my parents house about 11am. We sat there eating bakes, fish cakes and drinking cocoa tea; we had mackerel for lunch with some ground provisions, later in the afternoon I took J for a drive, we finally ended up on the beach. We, me more than him, took in the scenery, and by that I mean the fine women displaying their finest (really fine) beach apparel.

Saturday morning I went to the gym; got a good work out then went home, ate and headed to my office to get some work done and of course later in the evening (practically the next day) I went to one of my favourite watering holes to take in the various sheep, in all their fine cotton and other man made materials. I was so thoroughly entertained by the sights and sounds of my fellow sheep. I didn't get home till the little hours of Sunday; and you know J and his mother did not allow me to get the recommended 8 hours of sleep, I think it was deliberate. They had me up by 8am; besides I had to prepare chili for lunch by my parents, and anybody that knows me, knows I don't play by my belly. By the time I got home Sunday, the past three days had caught up and I was dead to the world; besides I had to be up to head to a boat ride in the morning.

And Monday morning, (more like afternoon, because the boat ride was suppose to start at 10am we didn't leave till 12pm) saw me, my brother from another mother, his cousin and two visitors from Switzerland waiting to head down the coast on this boat and get shit faced. We never managed to get shit faced, but boy did we have fun. Photos to prove it will be added later, maybe.

Damn that was a great freaking weekend. Thank the north wind and his only begotten son for such a lovely weekend.

Patience

Her words so simply, floats past her lips into my ear, through to my core, and I shudder, my heart takes a few extra beats, the blood rushes through my veins, I am bewitched. This vision across from me, this thief of sensibility, an enigma wrapped in a riddle.

The memories of our last liaison as distant as yesterday hastens my breath. I am stripped bare by her eyes, her smiles disarms me and warms my soul. She wants me, I want her, yet we play this game of hide and seek with our desires. Who can hold out the longest?

We both know what we want, we will have it, but for now we engage in a mental fuck fest; hearts throbbing, loins pulsing. The thoughts, the memories of the taste, the feel, the smell of each other so vivid. Our bodies alive with anticipation, anticipation of the breaking point; of me in her, her on me, us wrapped in each other. Ahhhh!

Just a bit longer. Wait for it.

Lost and Found

On Friday a colleague/confidant asked me who am I; and I didn't stop to think of the question nor my response. "I don't know." I said. And as I step out of the shower the question for some reason flashes through my mind. "who are you?" some time ago I attended a meeting and everyone who entered the meeting was asked to say where they are. Another interesting question. "Where are you?" to that my response was similar, albeit not in the same words.

So, where are you and who are you. With pen in hand, ink flowing, thoughts burgeoning, I still respond; I don't know. I am not my profession, neither am I my occupation. What I am and what I do is not who I am, or is it. I play many roles in this life, and I wonder is that who I am. If that is the case then I am more neurotic than I care to admit.

The answer to the question of who I am and where I am, is as mysterious to me as the meaning of life, the notion of true love and the illusion of happiness. These concepts are wrapped in more mystery than the Shroud of Taurine. The son of the north wind should be thankful for having been spared the plight of us mere mortals.

Where I am is where I need to be at this moment in my life irrespective of my financial, emotional, spiritual, physical or any other state now. Right here, right now, this is where I need to be, and that, is where I am.

Who I am, is whom ever I am required to be for what ever reason I am required to be that person or take on that role.

Who I am today is a man trying to find his way to where he needs to be. I am losing myself on my path of discovery.

Like a Birthday

I went walking this morning. It's been a while since I've done that, just the road, my music, my thoughts and my will. Walking allows plenty time to lose myself and find some of me. I thought of many things and people while I walked (some more important than others); but my thoughts were occasionally disturbed by the crispness of the morning air filling my lungs, the sound of the wind rushing through the leaves, the intermittent showers kissing my skin, but I welcomed these interruptions to my thoughts.

It felt good wiping the sweat off my brow, feel my lungs burn, my throat dry begging for water and my muscles begging for clemency as I pushed myself.

While I walked and occasionally jogged through my beautiful island so filled with life, I thought of the notion of happiness; and was reminded of a quote I came across a few days before. "Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect, it just means you've decided to see beyond the imperfections."

It got me thinking, being happy is much easier said than done; it is a perpetual work in progress. Happiness must come from you, but there are so many obstacles, disappointments and challenges that make this state difficult to maintain. Often we expect happiness to come in a magical lamp with a genie to grant us three wishes that will make everything ok. We get disillusioned by setting moving goal post as markers for our happiness.

Being happy is hard work; there is no quick fix, it certainly does not exist on a continuum and most certainly does not come in a neat little package delivered by the north wind or anyone else for that matter.

Happiness will not come to you while you sit wallowing in self-pity, self-loathing, indignation or any other of these self destructive emotions (there's that word again; it just keeps getting in the way).

Like everything else we need to take responsibility for our happiness. Stop thinking about being happy and just fucking be happy.

Company

He wears her misery like a burdensome medieval suit of armor. It weighs him down, her wretchedness has stripped him of his vibrancy. Aimlessly he searches to make his way out of the confusion; the maze of unhappiness, pity, self-loathing, disillusionment, disenchantment, anger, regret.

Misery has a name and a face, it's not obscure, not something that happens to other people. In his solitude he cries inside, but he is uncertain of his tears. Why does he cry, does he cry for her, or does he cry for himself.


He has been robbed, cheated of his happiness, his life, his emotions, his happily ever after; all that matters now is the inconsequential.


He rushes to do nothing, because it is better than doing her.

Therapy

It's been almost two months since I started this blog, ostensibly a place to vent, a place to rage against the machine that is this sheepdom. But the postings have taken on a life of their own. I'm not sure at what point it happened but it did; I can see and feel the change in me and it. I have tapped into something dormant and powerful inside me, something that won't rest, it tugs at me with no warning, it keeps changing, and I go along for the ride.

I'm enjoying this. My friend Hadron would say it's the writer in me and I should let my writer free. A writer, I never perceived myself as such and still don't; this has become my new addiction and I'm enjoying it. Perhaps I will come down from the high, but for now, I floating on cloud nine.

Enigmatic Illusion

There was something newly familiar about that face. I've seen it before I'm sure. This voluptuous ebony goddess strutting towards me. Sweet hips undulating, bewitching me, those heavenly legs carrying her in my direction, each step part of this tango of desire.

Her caramel skin kissed by the Caribbean sun, her smile radiant, brown eyes piercing my soul. Who is she? There is a vague familiarity to this new face. Caught in the rapture of her enigma, I stand gaping, labouring through the annals of my mind to unravel the mystery of this familiar face.

I feel a connection to her that transcends the boundaries of time and space. Convinced we were lovers in a past life and meant to be in this one, I smile broadly at her and wave; "hello, I've been waiting for you."

Enchanted

She sits alone staring at the empty walls of this house which has long since stopped being a home. Weary, sadden, defeated by the solitude that has become life.

Searching for answers, a respite from the dreariness, she pays reluctant homage to the spirit. Trying to erase the memories of the years lost. With every ascension of the spirit to her lips, the mind slips into a numbness, and the pain of the years past stream down her warm cheeks.

Then the levee of what was supposed to be her happily ever after breaks through in mournful torrents of bitter salty tears.

She praises the spirit once more, convinced of its ability to numb the pain and break down the walls of this self constructed prison. And for a moment freedom comes, ushered in by the sandman, and she is unconsciously happy. She has not known happiness for some time now.

Tomorrow it begins again.

Her smile has been hijacked, replaced by the pretense of contentment. Her spirit whipped to its knees. She wears her misery like a cilice, in a misguided penance, punishment for having the audacity to seek happiness in this short life. But no one sees her pain, no one notices her wince with every step, no one sees her dying inside, no one hears her lonely cries.

Beguiled by disposition, she rushes forward into tomorrow, motionless, muted.

Today will end; and a new tomorrow will break on the horizon of this torment.

Tomorrow life begins again. Tomorrow take flight.

Repose

I don't want to read anymore, I want to write. I want to write about women being old fashionably modern and not knowing what they really want. The words flow from my mind to the pen and finally scribed on the paper, but the words have no thought.

My mind won't allow me to engage in drivel, in a useless on going battle of the sexes, when there is some much beauty around me. It is such a beautiful day, everything calm and peaceful. I've combed the deepest recesses of my mind in search of a day similar to this, but I find none.

I have been sitting here for hours alone, the freshness of the ocean air filling my lungs, the breeze dancing on my skin, my mind clear, free of torment and rancour, silent; and I am not lonely. I have been here in solitary un-confinement, enjoying me. The sun is beginning to set now and the thought of leaving this place is distant in my mind.

Sledgehammer in hand I swing, I can see the cracks; it's only a matter of time before I break through.

The Witching hour

Sitting here on this old couch with a blanket thrown over it giving it that rustic quaint look , I listen to the ocean, it's calm today; the sea hits gently against the jagged rocks, the yachts/boats dotted on the sea, ahead of me two older gentlemen speaking in a language I do not understand and off in the distance the lush green mountains.

Today is a beautiful day. I raise my glass of scotch to my lips and sip. Ok what now? I had planned this day from the night before, and in the process gave the north wind a good laugh; things never turn out as planned.

At 3:10am, Jabari woke up crying, like he usually does to signal that either he no longer wishes to sleep alone or he is hungry, or a combination. His cries breaks the silence of my slumber and a spring to my feet. But on this morning the reason for his cries remain a mystery. He would not go back to sleep with the same speed with which he woke, and he would not take his bottle. He seemed content to roll around crying, possessed by memories of the bosom of his mother, now seemingly a distant memory; stealing away these precious moments of rest from me.

Last night was one of my more frustrating nights with him; and I broke. I tried to silence his cries; muffle them for a moment; I screamed out at him, a lot of good that did, I could do not scream in baby dialect so he persisted. Finally defeated by his unrelenting wails, I hovered over him and begged him in a solemn voice; "J please stop." I swear that child feels my pain and frustration at times like these; in his semi-conscious state, eyes half open, he reached out with both hands and touched my face. He brings me back to calm.

In my mind I heard him say, sorry papa (like only he can say it), I just want to sleep next to you. With that gesture only a child could make, I rolled over to my side, he fitted himself snugly against my body and fell asleep.

It's after 4am and my slumber is resumed. J, sun of mine, forgive me for my impatience.

VEX!!!!!

My nephew got maimed in a fight a few weeks ago; and as if that was not enough to enrage me, tonight I met one of his so called friends who was there when the incident occurred and just stood by without lifting a finger to assist, or put a stop to it. The boy would have the temerity to look me in the face and tell me that he is not a fighter, he doh get himself involve in dem tings, so what did I expected him to do. What the fuck. Listen I was across from him with a huge fridge between us and all I wanted to do was leap across and jump in his fucking meg muddacunt chest.



What the fuck! You stand by and watch your friend get chopped and say nothing, do nothing; what the fuck. Listen if I were out with my friend (and I have few), and someone were to raise their voice at my friend I would step in and ask what was the problem. Firstly to quell any possibility of an altercation, secondly to let him know he needs to consider his next move very carefully; however if that person persisted and made the mistake of raising their hand on my friend, well forget that; da man getting it one fucking time.



The little fucker look at me and tell me, he not a fighter, what de muddacunt! I was mad like lacing a slap in da man fucking ass. Man I eh tell any body go look for a fight; but there is a time and place for everything, I eh Jesus Christ, I not turning the other cheek, sorry. You not hitting me and I go stand up deh and say, excuse, but why did you hit me. You mad. One of us or both of us leaking.



Da man making joke. Ok I feel a bit better now.