A. Adams's Blog, page 3

My Ex is an Asshole, So What Does That Say About Me?

“I’m a bad guy…duh.”

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To think, this time last year I was teaching summer school to make a few extra ends, dreaming of breaking that mundane, monotonous, monstrosity of a cycle, and whoop (THERE IT IS…sorry, I had to), here I am–in a new city, in my new digs, and living a very, very new life.

The 2018 me would have put our face on a milk carton because the old me–the complacent me–disappeared…and quickly.

THANK.

GOD.

So, as I transition to this new phase in life, I have to reflect and ensure I don’t make the mistakes I made before, especially in relation to dating.

Gosh, I didn’t realize what a whiny, self-indulgent pissant my ex was until this weekend. Even worse, what the f*ck is my malfunction in dating someone like that?

I mean, the person hasn’t changed–I mean, not one bit and it’s been YEARS.

Damn.

And maybe that was the problem: I thought I could help the person be less sucky–so, I saw more potential in said person than said person saw in him/herself.

That’s probably where the disappointment and disgust come in: how dare I, in all my faux omnipotence, think I can change anyone?

The only person you can change is YOU.

So, that’s what I’ve started–the remodeling of me.

And I have to say, the renovation is coming along nicely.

Cheers to life revitalization.

Peace.

I Don’t Drink, But When I Taste Tequila…

I like to preface this post by saying, sorry, not finding a graphic to go along with this log of in-sane-ty because . . .

nothing–just because. . .

and I’m lazy and sleepy a$$ hell.

But, I’ve been listening to Dan + Shay, which = in my feelings.

Why?

I missed opportunities to post in April, though I had PLENTY of bullsh*t I could have spouted.

And.

I was on EDT yesterday, and I liked it (I could picture myself–sunglasses with no sun and blowing on an empty Starbucks cup [coffee is nasty] in two inches of snow–on that end of the Greenwich Mean), but it’s not as convenient or affordable as CDT–not car/parking friendly and you pay $4000 a month for 500 sq ft in a more than “sketchy” (sh*t, you “draw” the conclusion very fast that you wouldn’t be caught at 2:00 p.m. walking in the area let alone 2:00 a.m.) neighborhood.

And.

Humans, who I need to do important things for me, are being their usually incompetent, careless, dodgy, good-for-nothing piece of sh*t selves.

I mean, for once, can people stop making simple matters into complicated ones just to avoid doing REAL work?

If you don’t like your job, especially a customer service job, then quit. You don’t like answering questions? Well, damn, provide the right answers, solutions, and results from the start!

I watched “I Am Robot”, so I’m not for robots replacing humans in service jobs, but sometimes. . .

Situations can really drive people to the drink.

Too bad I don’t drink…

But when I taste tequila.

; )

 

 

 

Per-so-na: Who the Hell Am I?

[image error]Yeah, that’s right…that’s our president Kim “RM” Nam Joon–who will probably be the president of South Korea in 20 years for reals–flexing on us in a scene from BTS’s comeback trailer “Persona” for the group’s new album “Map of the Soul: Persona”– due to drop Friday, April 12, 2019.

Thus, today’s life lesson will be inspired by the “Map of the Soul” albums’ inspiration: the psychological archetypes of Carl Jung, or Jungian psychology.

We start with, of course, PERSONA.

When we take on a persona, we pretend to be whatever people expect us to be in that moment.

Situation: I wrecked my mom’s car.

Persona: Sorrowful, pitiful, remorseful child.

Reality: Not like I did it on purpose. She has insurance; she’ll get another one. I could have been killed or seriously injured–that’s what she should be worried about. Sh*t, it ain’t my car.

This is the true meaning of faking it until you make it.

Next, AMINA/AMINUS.

Taking on the gender role of the other–either female or male.

We all know that an assertive man is called a d*ck, a$$hole, or natural-born leader. While an assertive woman is just called one thing: a b*tch.

Ah, what a tangle web society weaves with its labels and distorted views of patriarchy.

Essentially, we are all the same, and there is a good argument for operating in genderless paradigms. No one exhibits behaviors just because “she’s” a woman or “he’s” a man. We’re human, so we act up and out based on our nature.

Because, naturally, if someone is trying to hurt you, you don’t give a f*ck what his/her gender identity is . . . you’re going in to beast mode and you’re going to do what you have to do to survive.

Survival knows no sex organs.

SHADOW…

Well, this is self-explanatory…the parts of us we want to hide from others: our jealousies, resentments, prejudices–our ugliness.

Even the things we ridicule and “hate” about others are really the things we dislike and hate about our own selves.

Our sh*t-talking is really our self-therapy.

Cheers to realizing we are all more Darth Vaders than Anakin Skywalkers.

Last, SELF.

Who we (I) really are (am).

Damn, when do you truly figure out who you really are with your many personas and shadows?

Hell, even your name isn’t decided by you; your parents picked it. So, they started shaping your self, persona #1, from the time you were born.

We will have to take back our names to start true self discovery–which sounds like a lot of paperwork and arguing with your relatives.

So, who the hell am I?

The only answer I can come up with…

a person.

Speak yourself.

Peace.

 

Tear, Tear, and Fear

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I’ve never liked crying. One, I don’t know how to do it cutely. Two, it comes out of a supreme feeling of helplessness. Last, if you make me cry, you better be ready for the consequences, because I find strength in my weakness. And you will have awoken the beast.

I was born a tiger; I will not live like a dog.

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One may tear when a tear (homograph lesson for you here) appears in some parts, or all parts, of his/her life. No matter how many times you try to repair it, once it’s broken . . . it’s broken.

So, how long are you going to keep patching it? When will you realize that it’s time for something NEW?

I know I’m talking a big game for someone who only recently took his/her own advice. But hell, fear is a motivator: you retreat or you rally.

And I’m calling all troops!

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Because I had/have people who depend on me, I was afraid to rock the boat–afraid to mess with my stable instability. Afraid to take chances, to take risks. . .always saying “I can’t.”

My mindset shifted in the last year and a half: Not only can I, but who in the f*ck is going to stop me?

Only YOU can stop YOU.

Onward. Forward.

Peace.

Blood, Sweat, and Tears

“I’m living my best life. . . ain’t got time to go back and forth with you.” –Lil Duval

I know I have matured. How do I know?

Well, someone recently tried to cold check me and didn’t know what the hell he/she was talking about. In my younger days, I would have read that motherf***** like alphabet soup:

A. I need to start calling you “CNN”, because you clearly don’t check your facts.

B. You showed the horns that I knew you’ve been hiding, though I don’t know how with a noggin that big.

“C”, I know your a$$ don’t like me, and the feeling is mutual, but you will respect me.

D-eez…I’m not that crass. . .

E-nyway, I’m proud of how I responded, and I’m proud that I fully understand that hurt people hurt people.

And Misery loves company, so I disinvited that bloodsucking h* from every aspect of my life like I’m Sookie Stakehouse.

Hell, I was already having a bumpy week: sleep deprived finishing work in advance, because I never like doing anything at the last minute; I had to cancel my travel plans–though I had them planned since Christmas time; the IRS delayed the few pennies they give me back of the foldable chunks they take from me every month; and my relocation plans got stalled by mere technicalities, which I provided the solutions for, but, of course, people don’t want to accept, why?

Because everyone wants you to wait for what’s yours, and even after you wait, guess what?

There will be another problem, and some more waiting.

SMH.

Damn, I need to win the lottery.

But. . .I have to look on the bright side.

Wait a minute. . .

still trying to find it.

Because, mama, I want to be a star. My name belongs in some rolling credits; f*ck a marquee. I like to entertain. I like to make people laugh. I like making people’s days just a bit lighter, even if I can’t make it better.

I have grown to know what’s important in life: life.

And we must make our days the best we can make them.

Screw the negativity and the setbacks.

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Peace.

 

Slow and Steady, Easy Does It: When Quitting Means Winning

[image error]The tortoise and the hare. . .enough said.

It’s already 25 days into the new year–wow, time really does fly. Anywho, while everyone is silently berating him or herself for not keeping any of his or her New Year’s resolutions, I’m flipping motherf*****g cartwheels because I finally did what I have been loathed to do for years: get out of my comfort zone.

Encased in cellophane wrap and placed on dry ice in a styrofoam cooler, my spirit remained voluntarily caged in convenience, naivete, and fear.

I slowly killed my development. By now, I could have a million and one YouTube followers; churned out memes faster than it takes Teslas to charge; and busting a move in the middle of Times Square to my fave K-pop songs.

I’ve been feening to dance Exo’s “Love Shot” in public.

Look at this sexy sh*t. . .

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Hmm, hmm, hmm. I got my Derek Zoolander model face ready.

K-pop really is magical.

Anyway, I’ve always thought of myself like that little nine-year-old from that video that everyone plays in his or her Crack videos on YouTube: “I’m a bad b*tch. You can’t kill me.” But I wasn’t fully living up to the persona: to go get it, to stare my adversary down and tell that h* to bring it.

So, I FINALLY took step one: I quit my job. Scary? Somewhat. Freeing? Hell, yes!

Moses: Let my people go.

Me: Here I comes, Moses, here I come!

Now that the hard part is over, here comes the easy part: living. . .real living.

Cheers to making 2019 your year by living your YOU.

Peace.

 

I Got 99 Things to Say About the Year 1999 and Whatever You Think I Will Say Ain’t One

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I know some of you may be wondering why I would spend the last day of 2018 talking about the last year of not only the 1990s, but the final year of the 20th century???

And this is how I would answer:

1. When the clock strikes midnight for those of us in the West–no, I don’t mean Cali but the Western Hemisphere–it will be 20 years since the 1990s ended and, technically, 20 years since the 2000s/21st century started, and guess what? We’re still arguing over the same sh*t they were arguing about the last turn of the century: immigration, communicable diseases, and the economy.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

2. Y2K scared the sh*t out of everybody.

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I may have been a shiftless whelp back in ’99–trust me, not much has changed–but the one thing I was aware of: wasn’t a damn thing going to happen to the world infrastructure when computers absorbed that it was year ’00 and therefore since it’s year 0, then back to nothing we go.

When people start spouting that end of the world/apocalypse shite, I always look to one place. . .

Australia.

If Austrialia’s all right, WE are all right.

That’s another reason why I never believed in the 2012 prophecy–though I must say the movie was a tour de force, really, only Woody Harrelson was.

If the world is going to end, we all going to go at the same time; natural disasters do not account for time zones. So, again, when Australia was fine once 2012 struck, then I knew the rest of us were going to be fine.

My grandfather also said that “ain’t sh*t ‘gon happen” back in ’99, and that man fought in a real world war, lost a finger in a car accident that killed his parents, and raised eleven kids as a general laborer post his service days, so I was inclined to believe someone who really knew what death, destruction, and despair looked like up close and personal.

All I know is that December ’99 was a very interesting time, and I laughed my a$$ off every step of the way, because this was the time you could tell someone face-to-face that he/she were a dumba$$ instead of using social media to do so. People learn better from physical embarrassment and shame rather than the virtual kind.

3. The Sixth Sense came out in 1999.

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And I never looked at movies the same.

Haley Joel Osment’s–Lily’s from Hannah Montana older brother for those of you kids who watched the Disney Channel before it went horribly, horribly wrong–Cole Sear saw dead people.

Okay. Fine.

He was receiving psychiatric help; Bruce Willis, we assumed, was his psychologist, guiding him through the f*cked up spool of ghosts he encountered, some who beat the snot out of him and popped up at the most inopportune times.

I had three heart attacks for him, especially with that girl who was poisoned by Pine Sol and other cleaning products kept showing up vomiting.

But besides that, Donnie Wahlberg, who played a pivotal role in the movie for barely five minutes, was totally unrecognizable as Donnie Walhberg, losing over 43 pounds for a part originally created for a 13-year-old boy.

And. . .

as the movie neared its end. . .

we discovered. . .

SPOILER ALERT

Bruce Willis, Cole’s “psychologist,” was one of the dead people, too.

*Throw all the silverware and plates off the dining room table.

W. T. F.

It’s 20 years later, and I’m still f*cked up over it, more so than the series finale of the Sopranos.

And that’s saying a lot. Lord knows I love me some Sopranos.

4. Unless they are going to create some kind of “live forever” serum, I will never see, as I am, another ’99, ’00, ’18, or ’19, so I may as well ridicule and chastise the happenings of the times I did see.

Cheers to another year under our belt.

Hopefully, in 2019, somebody will start paying me to write this sh*t.

Goodbye 2018. . .

Now, on to the next one.

 

 

Don’t @ Me…Well, Maybe

“Wishing on a sky. Wishing on a scar…day-daydream. Day-daydream.”–hook from J-Hope’s “Daydream”/Hope World hixtape/mixtape

Fact: Fish have to constantly move so they don’t “sleep”, necessarily, or “dream”; they daydream.

That’s some profound sh*t.

How?

And why?

Well, think about it.

When humans daydream, we conceptualize the things that we want to do and how exactly we want things to play out. Unlike a dream, which you can’t control, a daydream is your mind structuring your perfect world, your utopia.

Which makes you question whether or not we want our dreams to come true, or our daydreams to come true?

Well, I have been daydreaming for months now about what I would do if I won the lottery and dreaming about elementary school and clowns, so I want my daydreams to come true.

F*ck them dreams.

Dreams are really hard to achieve.

It has always been a dream of mine to go on “Fashion Police” and meet the incomparable Ms. Joan Rivers.

All I wanted was for Ms. Rivers to tell me I looked like sh*t or give me a golden hanger and two snaps in a swirl for doing the damn thing.

Sadly, that will never happen–unless time travel is possible in the next few years, and if it is, I don’t know if I want to change the the trajectory of my life by turning into something that would cause me to be one of the who’s who worthy of placing my behind in an FP guest chair.

And even though I’ve seen “Back to the Future” a million times and heard Doc–no, not my dad–warn about sharing anything from the future in the past, I would pull a Marty and warn her about visiting that doctor’s office that played a role in her untimely death.

Sigh.

As I said, dreams are hard.

They make us say I wish I could go back, or I wish I had done…or if I knew what I know now then, I would…

There are no regrets with a daydream.

It always works out.

So, cheers to applying the same ingenuity we use in crafting our daydreams to crafting a better reality.

Peace.

 

Treats for Tricks…Happy Halloween

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“I always feel like…”

You see Rockwell, so you know the rest of the line.

Anywho, today is the last day of October, Halloween, and the cue for daylight savings time to begin–Hocus Pocus has come on every freaking week on Freeform, so Omri Katz pops up in my head every time I say that phrase.

Speaking of Hocus Pocus, it turned 25 this year.

Damn.

I feel old.

But the important thing is…

I don’t look it. Aha!

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I don’t know why, but October has always been one of my favorite months. I don’t know if it’s the weather–being caught in the Fall vortex that reminds people of a transition from Winter to Spring then back to Winter–or my obsession with scary movies, especially the slasher flicks from the 80s, and the awareness that I will be fed well in month #10 with 2:00 a.m. showings of The Prowler, Student Bodies, My Bloody Valentine (no, not that Jensen Ackles sh*t), April’s Fool, Friday the 13th Parts 1-1,000, Fright Night (don’t ask me what version; there is only ONE legitimate Fright Night; don’t @ me on this).

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Really, I shouldn’t like October because I know a million and one people who have a birthday during the month of crisp and creeps–some b*tches I can’t stand and some b*tches I have to pretend to stand–I have had to rebuy the same gift three (3) times for a very ornery individual, and if the third time if not a charm…well…

let’s just say well.

Still, this has been an eventful month: I actually took a real vacation from work, and I got to see the seven loves of my imaginary life.

That’s right, b*tches!

I SAW BTS IN PERSON.

I SAW BANGTAN SONYEONDAN SING AND DANCE LIVE.

And THEY’RE REAL…

REAL FINE.

They were all athletically built, of good height, tan–oooh, that melanin be popping–sweating, looking like a snack, a meal, and buffet…post-concert depression is real, ya’ll.

I still don’t know what to do with myself. All I know is…

I need to win the lottery, or find a way to get paid to go concerts and fan meetings for a living.

Oh, and you know something that has been on my mind the last few weeks? Is it animal abuse for a homeless person to have a pet?

I mean, think about it. Most homeless people always have a dog–one they definitely walk the hell out of but can barely feed and can’t properly groom or seek medical care for.

That dog could be in a shelter with food and…hell, shelter, waiting to be adopted by a loving–hopefully–family.

I understand why someone would want a companion while on the streets, but isn’t that selfish thinking? Why would you want something you love to suffer with you?

Just something to think about.

Anyway, I wish everyone a happy last day of October and a productive start to November.

Keep your eyes open.

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I’ll end this with an even better picture of Vincent Price.

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Listen to “Thriller” (or watch Edward Scissorhands) if you don’t get the magnitude of his significance.

Peace, goons and goblins.

 

 

Chicago…Let Your People Go

Okay.

Mind you, I should be in the “friendly” skies right now, dreaming of the hot meal and shower waiting on me at home.

Ah, there is NO PLACE like home.

But…

I’m not.

I’m stuck.

Where?

At an airport in Chicago for two hours (which could very well, with my luck in the Chi, stretch to the next day) in addition to the four I had already spent here, waiting like a good, extra on-time passenger.

Why?

A broken panel on the flight’s air conditioning unit, which could spell T-R-O-U-B-L-E mid-flight.

I don’t know about you, but I have seen the movie Flight, and my pilot nowhere near resembles Denzel Washington.

Thus, I don’t trust him or the aircraft they are patching, instead of replacing, to usher me to my destination in one piece–and he, unlike Washington’s character, is sober–at least I think so.

As I watch enviously as other passengers board and sail off to their cloud cruise, I have to say that from the time I landed in the Chi, it has had a stranglehold on me and it won’t release, even though I tapped out at least a 100 times.

First, my family and I couldn’t find good parking–anywhere. The hotel’s parking garage was $60, and, we, foolishly, thought that we could find a cheaper alternative while “living it up” (stayed at a 5-star hotel with a 1 and 3/5 ambiance) in the Loop.

Second, the walkers are crazy and the drivers in the Chi are even crazier. I was almost in 40 hit and maybe runs and near- miss sideswiped collisions in one day.  The parking and the drivers, especially the taxi drivers, made it almost impossible to come and go as I pleased from restaurants and stores.

So, in addition to paying for a parking garage, I had to Uber several rides to and from specific, no-my-ass-wasn’t-walking-to-it events–more money for transportation when I already had transportation (the logic of it all).

Nevertheless, I had a goal in the Windy city, and once I achieved it, I was like f*ck all the other bullshit…it was worth it.

Then came check out: double charged for my room. Car was lost in the parking garage.

After that 30 minutes of a life waster, I was ready to let go of the Chi, but it wasn’t ready to let me go.

At the airport…super long TSA checkpoint line and I am ready…shoes off and blue tights blazing the security checkpoint runway, only to be told,”Oh, you can go through. You got what looks to be a kid with you.”

What???

All that unbuckling, unlacing, unpinning…

But I won’t complain…0.5 win for Chicago.

Then comes the arduous boarding process–I’ll leave out the details because I may be struck by lightning if I say what I really want to say.

Let’s move on.

So, I’m seat-belted, airplane-mode ready, eyelids dropping because I am working on barely five hours of sleep, only to be told…

The plane’s f*cked up, but give us 20 minutes.

Then–

The plane’s fucked up, but give us two hours.

Then–

Deplane.

Then–

Who in the f*ck knows?

It’s getting quiet here, the crowds are paper thin, and the take off noise is less and less frequent.

Maybe my family and I shouldn’t have said that we can’t wait to get the hell out of Chicago so many times.

Because it heard us…loud and clear.

And it won’t let go.

Shout out to my Chicagoans–I don’t know how you do it.

Peace.