Today my baby cousin would’ve been 27 years old if some guys who looked just like him hadn’t killed him. (see pic, Justin is in the middle) Two years later it’s a miracle I can even write that sentence. I really don’t believe it, even though I write it and type it and think about it over and over again it still doesn’t seem real or make any kind of sense. Justin is dead. A prince, slaughtered. People whose lives will never ever resemble anything normal again. Ever. Who makes these decisions. That is my question. Who gets to decide who lives or dies and why or why not. These are the conversations you have with yourself while you are smiling with other people over lunch. Always brutally aware that you are dead inside in a way they aren’t. Unless they knew Justin or had a Justin equivalent in their lives; at least then you can not talk about it and still feel understood.My uncle, Justin’s father, one of the strongest most compassionate man I’ve even known, is shattered. My aunt, Joyce, Justin’s mommy, will never fully absorb it, I think, I hope, because that kind of thing will kill you. And it’s hard being dead inside and trying to live. I tell myself Justin is free. He’s a spirit watching and protecting and urging all of us forward and onward. The dead part inside of me screams bullshit. He was just 25. He was loved tremendously, thousands of times over by beautiful people. He was our hope. He was our example of what happens when you are a pure loving being. And he was shot in the chest while helping a friend (typical Justin) and his life spilled out of him and he died without us being able to see him, speak to him again. What could he have been thinking, those last moments. Questions that will haunt forever. Humans collide into others and change people’s worlds forever. Justin when you were born I pretended you were mine. I sat in the backseat and sang to you in your car seat. You had no idea what I was doing, this skinny little 13 year old girl, all cooky and in your face, looking into your bright fantastic eyes. And I knew you loved it because you smiled, and you were my baby cousin and if I knew something bad would ever happen to you, I would’ve run off with you and plotted against destiny. Any, all of us would have. Now we sit and try to live without really knowing how to. Life, derailed. We were supposed to see you graduate with that engineering degree. See the girl who was lucky enough to fall in love with you. We were supposed to smile coo and sing to your babies in the back seat. The numb feeling is almost as bad as the pain. Being numb is a free ride you have to pay back late at night, or when the phone rings and we know it’s not you, or when some latent memory rips the peeling off your heart that makes it impossible to breathe. I know you’re okay Justin, you’re taking care of us all from the best possible place. Pilar needs you, your mom, dad, sister, brother, nephew and nieces, grandmama, your uncles. Your older, proud, sad cousin. Something was snatched from and out of us that August day. Your mom said, we will all see you again, and our job is to try to love every day until we get there. We will be together again. But not yet. Not yet. This is all I have right now. It’s such a beautiful day to be sad. Such a sad day for it to be so beautiful.
“I’m right on the edge…I don’t know what comes next.”
~ Steve, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
So, since the whole global financial market collapsed and we have a black President-Elect and OJ got sent upstate and Bush had a pair of Iraqi Buster Browns thrown at him, Supa decided to take a pause from this free-fall outta civilization and reflect on some of her personal shit. Yes!
Okay. So, according to her latest attempt at some form of fleeting dysfunctional female-to-male human bonding (a summer romance), Supa has now been dubiously labeled as a (wait for it) Disaster on Heels. Knowing full well that she falls neatly into the Beautiful Mess category, but whatever - he does acknowledge my stiletto game proper. And fuck him. Supa does not take personality flaw advice from a man with four children and an ex-wife and a sorta kinda current live-in girlfriend from
And molestation of a grown male, is like, a victimless crime.
Yes. Real sloppy start; granted. Even for me.
But it was radiant and ninety-eight degrees in LaLa land, the earth moved and birds sang and I began reading Anais Nin; he was exotic and new and forbidden and there, and I was freshly bikini waxed in a slinky summer dress, slingbacks and a thong, flossing a new Arabic tattoo; and forgive me for feeling ultimately fucking sexy. And thus he growled the words which propelled our short lived, shifty romance into full throttle: (He: “Damn, I must be some kind of lucky bastard,” when Supa accidently spilled the secrets in her bra). And off we went, sprinting toward the No, I’m Way More Fucked Up Than YOU finish line. Good times.
What can I say? It was summertime. My hormones were later proven to be unbalanced. He was cute. I was bored, on the prowl, inspired, determined to solidify my MILF status, who knows. I let him read (gasp!) some fresh writing material. He sat me down and tried to convince me why I was brilliant. (beware, the treachery of vanity.) We philosophized about everything from nihilism to Nietzsche. We each felt up the other in inappropriate, public places. Like the Mickey to my Mallory, we were wild and unstoppable. We were vibing so hard and yet he was so curiously/deliciously hesitant to join me in this sink-or-swim, emotional equivalent to chicken - which got Supa really excited. Or real determined.
Push/pull/back/forth/yin/yang/estrogen/testosterone. When the raw biological intensity reached its fever pitch, Supa allegedly trumped him by declaring, “Why can’t you just be my willing lover until I find out who I really want to be with, I mean, is that so WRONG?” (Supa, while violently reaching for his crotch) He then literally, how we say in this crumbling contemporary society - punked out.
Falling on his knees (as if I priestess and he confessor), he then tragically explained how he was a just momma’s boy (he’s 41 years old), and no good at these games with Alpha Females, he always loses (what the hell), how he had apparently bitten off more than he could now chew, and that my presence was pressing so hard (pun intended) against his existence that he didn’t like the constant horny disorganized state in which it left him.
The Got Me on My Knees Layla shtick. How original.
So since Supa was all good and heated and had the female equivalent of, how you say, Blue Balls..she stared blankly at fool, then immediately poked out her bottom lip, gathered her toys, and told him to not call her when he was ready to come outside and play.
What mutherfucka, what.
And here’s the kicker. We never actually consummated. Just engaged in a bunch of impulsive, drawn out, erotic and entirely senseless suckling and fondling, necking and petting. Which turns out to be the converse polar opposite of getting laid; when you’re coming off some kind of healthy, self-imposed year of celibacy type thing.
And don’t worry, we agreed his punishment was that I was allowed to blog about it all, as long as I didn’t reveal a solid timeline or drop hints about our haunts. Or call him a dramatic cunt. He goes by codename: The Culprit.
I left him with a bit of sage advice: Dude. Don’t ever finger fuck a poet’s feelings. Stroke them well, or you become fodder.
I told you I was trouble/you know, I'm no good.... Amy Wino
I scribble and lounge in my loft after-hours; the constant companions at my side (incense, books, quotes, pooch, wine) and the incessant pondering begins. #1: Fuck him. Right? Besides, I think I kinda might be in love with somebody else, anyway. Maybe. #2. I’ve gotta get a treadmill. #3. Shall I read the Bible or watch the rest of Bad Girls Club? #4. What am I gonna wear to work tomorrow? #5. What is an Alpha Female, exactly? #6. And shouldn’t that make one more eligible for successful pairing with an Alpha Male? #7. What is an Alpha Male, exactly?
Okay. I will release you from the insanity which goes on inside my brain now….
“Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air…” ~RWE
Sigh. Well, at the very least, one could say at the moment:
Looks like Supa’s got her swagga back.
(Karen: Chile, look at me. Actin' UP)
…to be continued….
Some some some I some I murder
Some I some I let go.....
8. What's up with this fetish I have: the male species and sexy accents? Whether it be Portuguese, British, Punjabi, Inglewood, Welsh, Australian, Compton-ian, Italian, Russian, East Los Angelese, Brooklyn, et al? (Not German. Or Dutch.)
9. Who else believes aggravated battery is the appropriate punishment for lazy ass folk who get on an elevator to ride one floor up or down, in like a 20 story highrise? Just me?
10. How come alcoholic beverages taste so good?
11. When September rolls around, who else starts wondering what the world would be like if Pac was still in it?
13. Why is it nowadays when I’m enjoying some bass-banging, inane, totally ignorant rap music in the whip, I turn the volume waaay down at red lights & stop signs - so no one else can hear what I’m listening to?
14. Does Supa still love hip-hop?
15. Should I be concerned that my dog appears to be lesbian?
16. And that while playing on the sofa, she attempts to include me(more specifically: my arm or leg) in three-way humping sessions between her girl stuffed rabbit animal, herself, and me?
17. What happened to the days when having a mediocre case of obsessive-compulsive disorder was explained away with cute little savory quips such as: “creative,” “special,” “organized,” "different," “quirky,” “eccentric,” “given to harmless fits of agitation,” “anal retentive,” or simply “control freak?”
18. What happened to the “Love Jones” movie sequel?
19. And where the hell is Larenz’ fine ass?
20. Is it evolved, pimpalicious (thanks D), or disturbing to have a get-together at a posh bar and invite three of your ex-boyfriends to come hang? And they all show up?
21. And they chat and drink together, while you’re wilding out on the dance floor sandwiched between two random dudes; and you wink at said ex's while throwing up the peace sign?
22. Who else is considering a move to Canada if this November shit doesn’t work out right?
23. Can you say “American Psycho?”
24. Who else cringed while watching (and reading) this fool’s amazing, disgusting, sadistic fall from grace?
25. And who else now thinks four, five times before sending those raunchy text messages to the co-worker you’re (halfway thinking about) fucking?
26. How grateful would you be if today, you lost everything – and then tomorrow, got it all back?
~ Supa, out.
PS- Sorry for the junky formatting, either blogger or my new laptop is triipppin'