I kind of feel like a Southern rapper right now. A very sick Southern rapper, but nonetheless.
In an attempt to rid myself of almost three weeks of bronchitis, I bought an econo-bottle of "raspberry" cough syrup at the pharmacy (I say "raspberry", because it tastes more like death and garbage than fruit). I bought it over-the-counter, a wonderful benefit of Canada's loosey-goosey stance on prescription drug abuse (Happy Canada Day, everyone!), and the pharmacist made me sign a waiver to bring it home.
Every night since, I have been wrapping myself in the ultimate warmth and security of codeine; a feeling that can only be liked to the ever-lasting comfort of knowing that Cam'Ron prefers white women.
p.s. Codeine abuse is no joke. RIP DJ Screw.
p.p.s. Truth time: cough syrup does make rap sound pretty good, in case anyone was wondering. It also makes me feel like my limbs weigh a million pounds, and gives me the most vivid dreams I've ever had.
Every summer, since we bought our house a few years back, I have slaved and toiled over an absolutely perfect vegetable garden, only to abandon it midway through, when my tanning-and-Slurpee regime gets too intense. The tidy rows grow over and the roots tangle themselves together. I may dig up a few carrots and beets in late autumn, but most everything goes to waste.
This spring, I noticed a small patch of strawberries growing in the back. I left this patch and threw out the surrounding debris, save for a few lone violets. I decided to forgo a cumbersome garden, focused solely on nurturing a very small, well-maintained plot of berry plants. Today I pulled the first strawberry off one the plants, and it was delightful.
I suppose this is all some sorts of metaphor for what has been going on in my head lately, but that is a story for another day.
p.s. All of this rain is really cramping my style. My skin is pale, I've been sick for two weeks straight, I don't own a rain coat or boots, our basement is leaking, and I've had to bleach my white sneakers so often that they are falling apart in my hands. Super bullshit.
I happened upon a man running up and down the stairs by my house in jumpsuit, on top of a giant sweatsuit, lined with plastic bags. He was either really determined on losing some water weight, or really mentally ill.
I was going to pause and warn him that Martin Lawrence ended up in the hospital doing the exact same thing a few years ago, but instead I just kept going.
"This", I said to myself, "is why people don't like you".
Last long weekend, I had a few tequila shots at my parents' house, almost burnt down the entire backyard, and later that evening, I almost officially called this year's official summer jam recklessly.
I seldom do things I regret while under under the influence anymore, so I don't know why I thought I could take on the tasks of (a) lighting a small, well controlled bonfire in the backyard, and (b) picking out an incredible summer track.
I was actually having a tough time deciding on the perfect song, mostly due to the fact that I was also controlling a sizeable yard fire. I had a bunch of teenage rappers in mind, but nothing stuck. I decided to sleep on it for a night.
When I woke the next morning, things were looking really bleak. Then, I remembered: 100% of the songs I choose every single year are 90's R&B or rap, and 75% of those songs are SWV Remixes. Simple.
The first time I heard this song, I was in grade ten. I showed up to a party I wasn't invited to (by myself), watched everyone around me pass out on the floor from chugging Jungle Juice, and sat around listening to mix CDs alone before walking home in the dark. I loved, and thus stole, this particular mix from the party- I have no idea who made it, or whom it belonged to. I carried it home in my coat, and it's still in my basement somewhere.
p.s. Also, for the record, I ended up putting out the fire before it got too intense. I got this plastic watering can, started pouring it on top of the flames, until the top fell off and into the fire. I went to get the hose, and when the fire was finally out, I fished the spout of the watering can out of the fire without a scratch or burn on it. Now, I'm not one to usually talk about gardening equipment with such gusto, but reaaaaally. Amazing.
p.p.s. No disrespect to those teenage rappers and their loved ones, but you guys are really lucky I decided to sleep on it for a night.
1. Just take a shower.
If you find yourself messing around with a chick that has bathed herself
in Electric Youth, remember to take a shower before you go home to your wife. Use
some soap. Don't go home smelling like "sex and condoms" (direct quote
from the show). Also, please re-consider sleeping with someone who
actively wears teen perfume from the 80's.
2. Don't let Maury do your dirty work for you.
We've all had to give someone some bad news. It's rarely going to be an
enjoyable experience. That being said, do you really want to hand the
task over to a middle-aged TV personality that has taken an unusually
keen interest in publicizing the infidelities of lower-class Americans? Do you really want to give Maury the satisfaction of emphasizing the 'NOT' part of "You are not the father"?
3. Just say no.
If someone calls you from the Maury show, and offers you a free ticket
to Stamford, Connecticut, just say no. You don't have to go. Nobody is forcing you. Don't kid yourself: Stamford is
no place to take a vacation, unless you like bodegas, prepsters, and empty lots.
Also, this would be a grand time to start pointing fingers at your loved
ones. Is your baby a shade of mocha that does not run in your (very
Caucasian) family? Mystery solved. No TV appearance needed.
4. Maury ain't havin' it.
Nobody ever gets in a punch on the Maury show. Go ahead, try to knock
the face off of your wife's lover. You'll have six burly dudes in khaki
pants and collared shirts piling on top of you on national TV, which is
probably the worst way to assert your manliness in the whole wide world.
6. Sexy decoys will seldom decoy the wise.
First of all, the sexy decoys are almost never considered 'sexy' in the non-Maury world. However, time and
time again, while waiting in the green room, minutes away from proving
their supposed innocence to their partners and the world, these fellas will
take the bait, and prove their stupidity to the world instead. Self-awareness is key in these situations. It is my understanding that the majority of
the male population is fully conscious of when their dick is hanging
out of their pants; the minority are the gentlemen that end up on the Maury
show.
