Love

Side Nigga Theorem

June 17, 2042

My son walked in the house distraught. I knew something was wrong before the key even slid in the lock. My Nigga didn’t even check to see if the Ring alarm was activated. It was two in the morning, after all. Niggas like to shoot at stuff this time of night. It was one of those restless nights where I would sit on the couch and watch reruns of Atlanta Braves games from earlier in the day, if they won. That’s when I heard something drop outside of the door. Bullets don’t make metallic clinking sounds outside, so I knew it was him coming home for the weekend. Neither myself nor his mother was expecting him, but we never do. And I resent that he thinks our lives are tame enough to walk in unannounced; maybe my Friday night couch time is reserved for doing a little heroin while his mother sleeps soundly upstairs, I don’t know. I got an Instagram too; a little swinger’s ball could have been the move. But no, My Nigga knows his father’s a lame, it’s baseball season, and- you know what- maybe he DOES let me know when he’s headed this way. One day I’ll read all those notifications that come to my BezoPhone, but probably not. Anyway, my guy walked in and closed the door so loudly, I turned and furrowed my eyebrows at him in the breezeway. “Your mama sleep, boy. Don’t let her come down here; this the only time I can eat these pork rinds without hearing her mouth. Ever since that SZA girl opened that juice bar down the street, all I hear is ‘Garden gang’ this and ‘Control your sodium’ that.”

That boy don’t listen to me, ever. I told him to look at an HBCU; he chose Wake Forest. Now, here I am writing MY name on these student loans for a school that ain’t even lit. I told him those exact words, and he look confused. His mama had to explain the concept of ‘lit’ to him. She also supported his terrible decision to go there. Every story he tells me is of something he experienced at Winston-Salem State, a much cheaper and much Blacker option. I don’t get it at all. I don’t get him, or the audaciousness of these kids in general, though. You know what My Nigga asked me when he was 15? He tapped me on the arm and asked, “Who is Wu-Tang and why aren’t they anything to mess with?”

I thought my ears were going to overflow with blood and explode like I was on that Tesla nigga’s son’s deep-water submarine that blew up a year back. “Son,” I explained to him, “It’s ‘AIN’T nothing to FUCK with’; also…it’s my birthday, nigga, damn.”

I think about that moment every time he comes to me with an issue. If Wu-Tang is for the children, and your little young ass doesn’t know who Wu-Tang is, by default, you don’t know nothing. But whatever, I give My Nigga advice regardless. If he listens and applies any of it? I couldn’t tell you.

Tonight, however, My Nigga was DISTRAUGHT. I turned off the TV and stared at him. He was going through it. His eyes surveyed the rug. The keys dangled in his hand loosely, and I could see he shook slightly before he wiped his eyes. “Aiyo…what’s wrong?”

“Is Mom woke?”

“I just told you she’s not. Why you run to your mother when something’s wrong anyway? I’m sitting right here.”

“Cuz all you’re gonna say is ‘fuck it’.”

I scrunched my face up like My Nigga had just shoved Bhad Bhabie’s nasty ass perfume line under my nose. He didn’t confide in me, and that was bad enough. But waiting to do so with his mother was offensive. My wife, God bless her, doesn’t dispense wisdom quite as salient to My Nigga as she does to people she didn’t give birth to. And I don’t blame her one bit. She’s a very logical person, and logic always gives way to protection when it comes to matters involving her baby. I studied him for a few quiet seconds and motioned for him to sit down. He put his chin in his hand and played with the few beard hairs that danced wildly on his face. I saw his nostrils flare, and those beard hairs moved slightly as he clenched his jaw. That was all that needed to be communicated. “So, who is she?” I asked.

The story flowed out of him without pause like a fountain in a mall terrace. Her name was Deidra. She was a student at North Carolina Central, and someone he had brought over to the house as a friend, which, to me, signified that he wanted something more. My Nigga is very cryptic with things like this, and to introduce her was a revelation. The young lady was cute as a button, quiet and demure, sitting on the love seat and smiling and agreeing with everything my wife said. I knew My Nigga liked her then, but perhaps was too passive in letting her know. I held up a finger to stop him, went to the bar, and poured a small amount of Cabernet Sauvignon into two tumblers. My Nigga looked like he needed a drink. He went on, telling me how he liked her, how they were around each other all the time, and (gasp…) how they had had sex on occasion. She was from Northern Virginia, and had told him that she had a longtime boyfriend back home. By this point, the sniffles became more pronounced, and he stuttered and tripped over words as he spoke. I just listened and nodded, fully aware that this may have been- or still very much is- his first love.

The story went on, as convoluted as emotional retellings tend to be. It was clear My Nigga needed to get this out, and I wasn’t going to interrupt him, save for the glass of wine I poured that he sipped intermittently. I heard a stirring come from upstairs, and thought for a minute his mother had heard him arrive. Apparently he heard it too, because he stared directly up at the ceiling and paused, sliding his wine glass in my direction. After a few moments, and after it was evident that she was still upstairs and oblivious to the two men sipping red wine over a lovelorn tale, he continued. He did indeed like her, and he sat confused and angry over not telling her exactly how he felt. I sat for a few seconds- maybe even a whole minute- while he stared into my eyes with a look I hadn’t seen since he first skinned his knee falling off a bicycle. My Nigga needed help, advice, and guidance. And he relied on me to give that to him. What on earth should he do about this? Why does this hurt so much? And why does this person still invade his thoughts during activities meant to forget about her? It was all there, and I saw it without a word uttered from his mouth. I went to the staircase with my glass in hand, looked up to make sure she wasn’t listening, took a sip from my glass, and whispered, “you a side nigga.”

I can’t describe the look in My Nigga’s eyes, but it was the reaction I both expected and welcomed. His pupils were tiny embers of resolve and anger, hurt and insulted that his father reduced him to some dude this young woman was biding her time with. He sat up, and I knew I had his attention, if not his ire. That completely out-of-context observation had awoken something within him, defiant to not be relegated as someone as unimportant as a ‘side nigga’. “Think about it…she has a boyfriend- had a boyfriend- the entire time y’all were together, right? The ENTIRE time?”

The embers were now fully ablaze. He leaned forward and tilted his head to one side, as if affirming the disrespect that fell upon his ears wasn’t some late night, overserved oversight. I saw his body jerk towards me, and, for a second, envisioned the coming-of-age conflict sons have with their fathers I’ve read and heard so much about. One of my friends had an encounter like that not too long ago. Apparently, his little man thought he was too grown to do some chore or something. We sat in his kitchen as he told the story, stopping right before the interaction between he and his son. God must love drama and awkwardness as much as I do, because as I asked what he did to handle the situation, his son walked in and opened the refrigerator. My man looked right at him, almost as if taking the pulse of his son, and said unflinchingly, “I simply reminded him of a few things…”

His mother was presumably fast asleep, only waking to use the bathroom, so there would be no referee to this battle. My Nigga looked on, and I could tell that he knew I had something to add to my previous statement, which I did. “The entire time,” I continued. “The entire time she was messing with you knowing she had something, or someone, rather, back “here”, right?”

He clenched his teeth, but eventually nodded. “So you a side nigga. But…and I see your face…that’s not meant to be a pejorative term. That’s the young lady you brought to the house, right? Deanna?”

“Deidra.”

“Right. So, Dianna cle…”

“Deidra!”

“Don’t go correc…you know what I mean. So, this girl is clearly into you in some form or fashion. I don’t know why. You can’t dress. Who wears Pumas? Anyway, all I’m saying is maybe you have to play your role until you get off deck and up to bat.”

“I hate baseball. Why is everything a baseball reference with you?”

“Because Tom Glavine pitched us to a Wo…you know what, why do I even talk to you? You don’t even know…name all the members of Wu-Tang.”

“Dad, you know I don’t even know…”

“Exactly! Hush. You don’t know the Purple Tape…BUT do you like this woman? You do, right?”

“…Yeah.”

“And she likes you, too. Maybe she doesn’t know it yet. Maybe she does, but feels obligated to whoever she’s with. And maybe she’s just holding on to him because he’s familiar and comfortable. College can be scary as shit sometimes, and it helps to have people that know you to talk to. Maybe she’s confused. I don’t know. But what I do know is that she’s young. What is she, 19? How old are you, again? 19?”

“20. I’m 20. She’s 20.”

“You don’t know shit; she don’t know shit. Y’all don’t know shit, is what I’m saying. What you DO know is you can be the best side nigga in the world to her until SHE knows you’re somebody tha- don’t lean over on my pork skins, that’s my last bag- that’s down for her. That she understands that clearly and without a doubt. You know what I mean when I say side nigga?

“Yeah, I’m just fucking her until she realizes I want to be with her.”

“Watch your mouth, boy. You don’t talk to your mama like that. We ain’t friends. I ain’t got to like you, boy. While you be thinkin’ bout TV, I’ll be thinkin’ bout the roof. You gon’ sit the-”

My Nigga just rolled his eyes and laughed. “How come you ain’t never like me?”

“What law is there say I gotta like you? Wanna stand up there in front my face and ask a damn ass fool ass question like that? Talkin’ bout likin’ somebody!”

“I’m not watching that while I’m home, Dad.”

“And that’s y’all’s problem. Little niggas can’t appreciate Denzel, God bless his soul. Damn shame that Zuckerberg money he took for Equalizer 8 couldn’t save him. ‘I’m not watching that’, I don’t know where I went wrong with you. But no, I don’t mean just being some dude she can call when she looking for fun. Be the dude she can call when it ain’t sexy time. Be the PERSON she can rely on. You like her, right? Be someone she can talk to about her man, even if it burns you up inside. Because understand, those things do not go unappreciated. Be her friend, son. Be her side nigga that is literally on her side. Very easy to do…if you really like her, no?”

My Nigga just looked off into the distance, looking for an argument that could refute what he just heard. Finally, he shrugged and mumbled and very resigned, “probably. That how it went with you and mom?”

“No, not at all.”

“Y’all never told me how y’all got together, though.”

“And I never will. It was a lot of snap music and this,” I said, holding up the glass of wine.

“What’s snap music?”

“Go on now and get out my face, boy.”

My Nigga smiled and walked upstairs, only to check on his mother before laying down in the guest room, phone in hand and dropping his keys on the ottoman beside his bed.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Stop Being Greedy

“Niggas wanna shout, I’ma make noise…”

I was 11 years old when I first heard Earl Simmons in- retrospectively- possibly the most ill-fitting space possible. Ma$e, Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, and No Limit Records were the soundtrack of my childhood. And Tupac. Ostentation, melody, and the wonderfully nascent New Orleans bounce melody. And Tupac. It was what resonated and became the foundation of what I believed to be what rap music embodied. Tupac died and the ostentation and melody marched on triumphantly. It was so sumptuous and magnificent and excellent. It was goals and joyfulness and hope that I could dance in all white in a desert for no reason other than simply having the means to do something so absurd. Tupac meant a lot to me even then, but PUFFY AND MA$E WERE ON A HELICOPTER WITH MARIAH CAREY IN A SKINTIGHT SWIMSUIT IN GOD KNOWS WHERE. Young, malleable me imprinted that and correlated it with being successful. And happy. That was all rap needed to be at that point.

“Let my man and them stay pretty, but I’ma stay shitty/Cruddy, did it all for the money, is you with me?”

Mentioning Bad Boy Records is important to understand DMX’s impact as an artist certainly, but even more so as the beloved icon he became during his lifetime. His rise is inextricably linked to Bad Boy, but only in the context of what he was not. Puff worked with X and featured him twice on that Ma$e album, but only in the capacity to further Ma$e’s credibility with those that would never be carefree and rich and drunk on a body of water with Mariah Carey in a skintight swimsuit in God knows where, as was Bad Boy’s aesthetic at the time. When the opportunity came to sign DMX, Puffy knew he didn’t fit into that ethos and couldn’t be glossed up by the 1970s samples and opulent lifestyle that the late Notorious B.I.G. flawlessly (and inexplicably) pulled off. It wasn’t a mutual fit, and for all the questionable things Puffy/Diddy/P. Diddy/Papa/Papa Diddy Pop probably needs to answer for over the course of his career, this was not one of them.

“I wanna break bread with the cats I starve with/Wanna hit the malls with the same dogs I rob with”

X was quite literally a born loser. He said it himself. He talked about robbing people with the introspection of a person that hated the circumstance, but not necessarily the action itself. However, everything he did was in spite. In spite of the circumstance. In spite of chance. In spite of consequence. Rap is rooted in overcoming odds. But DMX overcame the Goddamned IMPOSSIBLE at a Goddamned impossible time. I could and would talk about his career objectively forever, and I really mean forever. But this is not about that. Not quite. This is why what he wasn’t meant so much to ME.

The spring of 1998 was a line of demarcation that defines me to this very day. The innocuous joy and blissful stupidity slipped out of my view from the window of a two-door Ford Explorer as my mother and I made our way from MY home in West Nashville to a place that somehow felt simultaneously relative and foreign in Washington, DC. Nothing was new to me, yet everything seemed novel. This wasn’t anything I was unfamiliar with, yet the status quo readjusted itself unbeknownst to my sensibilities. It was a shock, and I am ever so grateful for it.

It’s Dark and Hell is Hot brazenly pulled an entire group of rap fans that became comfortable with its’ luxurious bluster into the hungry, raw, and incredibly conflicted world that was Earl Simmons. It was an inflection point that essentially derided everything rap was, and became something that rap was allowed to be going forward. There was no bliss because in this world blissfulness and delusion were synonymous; here, reality trumped ecstasy. Everything seemed relatable, yet foreign in DMX’s world. You could have very well been the person X was, because that was the microcosm he drew you into. But most of us weren’t that at all, yet we stayed to not only root him on, but to love this man. DMX never scared me. If anything, I spent more time being scared that the lingering demons he spoke so often and candidly about would swallow him way too prematurely. I feared that maybe he wouldn’t get to see his impact during his lifetime. And in his death, it was very evident this was never the case.

Like so many of the prevailing themes in his music, I was conflicted about the possibility DMX would not make it through. When it became more evident that this fight was not one he would find a way to win, my thoughts went to his family and the people close to him that helped assuage our collective grief by their beautiful and illuminating insights, stories, and anecdotes about Dark Man X. They made me feel good about the life the man lived and the happiness that he was able to enjoy while he had the opportunity to do so. It made his passing a celebration. And what immediately hit me afterward were two things: the man’s life became an extension of our own simply from his existence; and I feel shitty for being so entitled to that access.

“Y’all been eatin’ long enough, dawg, stop being greedy”

There’s a platitude commonly used in sports that just kept reverberating in my mind after his passing: he left it all on the floor. That everything a person had to give was exhausted for the sake of competition, and the adoration of his or her fans and detractors alike. The notion that when an athlete walks away, we the fans are placated with the idea that it was all done FOR US. That somehow the object of our affection, scorn, and criticism could somehow sleep easier knowing that the people that shouldn’t matter thought he or she did a good job. And I hate applying this to DMX, but the parallels are unmistakably present in a way that many other artists are lucky to never be beholden to. DMX gave us his heart; he allowed us to celebrate with him, while being vulnerable enough to introduce and accept his weaknesses. It was the hope that he would always find a way to rise above, to be better than we could ever hope to be in light of our OWN circumstances, much less his own. It was the self-deprecation that he invoked in his misgivings. It was the light that shone off of his genuine amazement that he became what he became. It was so much. Too much for us, really. And it’s why I feel such joy for having this person in our collective lives. Because we never deserved him. And at the same time, I feel very comfortable expounding on his meaning to ME. DMX reveled in intimacy in so many ways that it became selfishly hard to let him go. HE BELONGS TO US GOD, PLEASE DON’T TAKE HIM FROM US became, in so many iterations, how every single one of us felt. It became the moment when we realized the champion and fighter needed to win one more incredibly overmatched battle, very much in the ways cancer, ALS, and the like, compel us to urge our loved ones to fight tirelessly for our own sake. It’s out of a love forged from the uncertainty of life without their contributions, somehow well-intentioned and centered around our own adherence to someone else’s strength being our own when it was never ours to begin with.

The scariest thing about letting him go is admitting that his incredible resilience bolstered my own. That his 50 years on this earth were not wrought by struggle so much as an otherworldly ability to overcome it. That this nigga was simply not human, and maybe he could be as fallible as humans tend to be. The beauty of DMX for me laid within the idea that the soul he bared to us was one so flawed that his unbelievable talent on a microphone both superseded and served to reinforce the notion maybe there is greatness in all of us, when that is a wholly fictional and nonexistent concept in large. What he was…IS…is a beacon. An ideal. The image of the good inside of us in spite of. None of us will ever be him, but IN HIM we felt less haunted by what our imperfections can obfuscate. He was strong because he was exceptional, and I am me because of the belief that I could be exceptional too. I thank you, DMX, for that. I thank you for showing me strength doesn’t reside solely in apathy or indifference. I thank you for showing me that being true to self is not weakness. I thank you for…just being. And I thank your family so much for understanding his willingness to give so much to us, entirely aware of how much people such as myself needed that validation to turn pain into light.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

The Beating She Deserves

I ain’t go to reason with her; I want to beat the hell out her…

If she has the nerve to agitate me, then it’s within my right to remind her that I’m not above showing her what I’m capable of, right? I feel demeaned; like less of a man, even, when she stands there with the comfort to tell me what I CAN’T do. What recourse do I have at this point? She’s bringing this on herself.

She wants Sanaa and Omar. Beating her because I love her makes all the sense in the world, and I really don’t care if you understand. That picture she’s been clinging to went from an ideology to a tangible goal…with me. I’m just as taken with her, too. It’s just…it’s just…I just can’t tolerate disrespect. I wasn’t raised to tolerate it, and I have to prove myself as a man. She left me with no other option.

Believe me, I’ve gone through every situation at least twice before I decided she deserved to get her ass beat. Of course the general public won’t condone this behavior, but they don’t understand that our situation is one that is unique and very sensitive and dear to me. How can I provide the security, masculinity, and passion she desires if I back down now? I can’t. And I hope you understand; if you don’t, I apologize.

She wants Sanaa and Omar. You know, that conflict that drives them apart, then together forever. Beating her because I love her makes all the sense in the world, and I really don’t care if you understand, if I can be totally honest with you.

The courts knew and supported my decision. Hell, they cleared an area and turned a blind eye when I finally went through with it. Not a single word was uttered to either of us as I lifted my right hand again and again, smiling victoriously at every hit…

Am I less than a man? A coward, perhaps? Circumstantially, how could you ever know or judge? Do I not deserve the benefit of the doubt, as well? She chose me; I was just fortunate enough to register on her radar. For that, I am so grateful. However, I am steadfast in my decision to beat her senseless…

She wants Sanaa and Omar. You know, that conflict that drives them apart, then together forever. She chose this game, and will suffer dearly for it. Beating her because I love her makes all the sense in the world, and I really don’t care if you understand; this is OUR issue, not yours.

How can I do this to the person standing before me in my shorts and a t-shirt that refused to hide her belly button? Her bun became an unkempt mess trying to avoid this and, while it turns me on, I refused to stop. I just hope she understands she deserves this. I can only hope she gets why this is happening to her. She asked for it constantly.

She wants Sanaa and Omar. You know, that conflict that drives them apart, then together forever. She chose the game, and will suffer dearly for it. She wants to play for my heart, oblivious to the fact that she owned it already. But I guess beating her because I love her doesn’t make any sense to her; YOU don’t have to understand, but I hope one day she does.

I guess she thought I’d be “cute” and let her win. Nope. Ain’t no friends on this basketball court. Although I do love when she fouls me…

I hated it had to be her; I love the post-game showers though. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Undone

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blue eyes too big for her face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and hope that I look semi presentable…

*Throws book into fireplace and rubs bridge of nose with thumb and index finger*

Enjoy your day, ladies.

I’ve loved and I’ve loved being loved…

She has peeled back my layers of bravado and bluster to expose a fractured psyche. My wounds were made as visible as the vulnerability exhibited in allowing them to become tangible. She has allowed me to see the strength in my weakness. Intimate conversations are held without a sound seeping from either pair of lips; instead an extended gaze speaks words that touch the back of the mind and the center of the heart.

I have chipped away at the uncertainty that lies behind her mascara to find what lies underneath is a beauty that Clinique has not been able to bottle. I let her hazel eyes paint the pictures she has etched in her soul onto my tongue. I make love to her insecurity, give birth to trust, and raise her expectations of what the men in her life are supposed to look like. Her heart will never be stolen; I have no need to burgle what she is becoming increasingly comfortable to give to me.

I’ve loved and I’ve lost…

I have held and I have hurt. I have shivered in my sleep and lingered in my shower while scalding water assails my back as I lean against the tile. Each sleepless night leads me back to the same reality: I don’t want to be here. It all seems so mundane, this existence.

I have denied the existence of these feelings. I have refuted human nature so convincingly that I now seem impenetrable. But I am not whole.

You see, it is not her that is slowly killing me; it is this cycle and moments of weakness that allow me to believe that this is healthy. This is a drug. This is insanity. She is merely the vehicle that allows my dependence to progress into something so terr…

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part III: Faded Pictures and Old Playlists

Is it weird I still think about them? What about the fact they routinely pop up in my head in the form of wistful nostalgia? How about the fact I still have pictures of them in my phone, even though some of them were two or three cells ago? Would you judge me if I told you I still pull up those pictures from time to time? Or that I stare at them longingly, wishing I could somehow relive some of the moments that continue to play on in my dreams? And the damn songs. Those songs all of them ruined because they send those complex emotions rushing back to me and make me relive the memories so often. Sometimes I sift through those pictures and replay those songs in my mind silently, some more somber than others…

“As she turned through the pages, a tear rolled down her face/I could see her reminiscing…why her life had to be this way…”

I was in love with her at 12. By then, she lived 688 miles away in a city I had just left but loved just as much. I grew up with her and fell for her temper. We fought so damn fiercely, I knew that passion would eventually be channeled into something mature and timeless. I just KNEW it would. The song doesn’t really speak to what I felt and what I wanted her to feel; she just used to sing it off-key on the couch when I visited her. That picture of her smiling at me while an Ebony Magazine sits open in her lap always conjures up the love I have for the summer of ‘99…

This one loved the song “Like You” by Bow Wow and Ciara. I sit and look at my phone, amazed that somebody so pretty then could become more beautiful years after that youthfully ignorant pose that smiles back at me. I remember that song because it blared from her phone and I knew that someone she was more interested in was calling. The bridge is a run-on sentence that ended with what my heart screamed silently at her: IAin’tNeverHadNobodyShowMeAllTheThingsThatYouDoneShowedMeAndTheSpecialWayIFeelWhenYouHoldMeWeGon’AlwaysBeTogetherBabyThat’sWhatYouToldMe- and I believe it- cuz I ain’t never had nobody do me like you….

I still hate the man on the other end of those calls, even though I never formally met him. The fact my feelings were embodied in a song reserved for another dude pissed me off. Despite it (or because of it), that drove me harder to live out those lyrics during our aimless drives in my Ford Explorer…

Love can be either a continuous melody or a painful bookend, which is why Ms. “Like You” will forever be remembered by a Ghostface Killah song, too. Not even a song, actually; the instrumental to said song…I had some SHIT to say. Is love really being up late writing angry lyrics over a Ghostface track? If you’re angry enough…it makes sense to you, trust me. The “Back Like That” beat played in some shitty iPod headphones while I scribbled a message I desperately wanted to shout in her face…

Jay-Z’s “Dear Summer” made me a stalker. The copied-and-pasted Facebook pictures of her posing in her dorm room made me weird to the people that didn’t understand what love really is. If they knew, then they had to know why I wanted to stalk her. With that song playing over and over from an iPhone 3 perched in the bushes situated below her kitchen window. She would never notice my actual presence…but she would absolutely feel a certain discomfort at the amount of weird things happening around her. Simple things like me gluing the hair in her combs to her bathroom mirror in vague messages. Or weird, square-shaped patches missing from her beige pillow covers. Or her Twitter account being followed by @ImUp_IAmAlwaysUP_AndWatching_You. Thank God that’s not a long song, my Dear [Redacted]…

The next image is hard to look at; it’s harder to describe the impact such a passing moment continues to have. She stood in front of a fountain- one I walked by daily to a building that had professors that changed my life and women that made life hard and a department that dared me to be great- and held me like she was in love with it all without her really knowing so. My Little One. The single mother that was both thirsty for knowledge and unaware of her immaturity. When somebody so young is the anchor of her entire family, her saying her ringtone for you is “No Better Love” is special. I couldn’t even come up with a decent quip for it; it’s awesome, period. I hear that song and just imagine she still smiles whenever it gets played. It’s my only bridge to a past that easily could have been my forever. Maybe it’s my ego whispering to me that I will always matter within those three or four minutes. Maybe I just like the damn song and misremember how special it really was to her. Whatever. I don’t miss her. Nope. I’m not trying to convince myself at all…

Man, she stole MY song and made it OURS. That motherfucker. That humble, pretty, stacked motherfucker. I played a song I loved and she loved the song and now we love the song. “Time of Your Life” went from being something that elevated my mood and made me smile at the ridiculous nature of day-to-day life to becoming a burgeoning couples’ mood music. Her pictures are explicit so I won’t describe them (but I damn sure will keep on looking) but what the hell…?

This last picture is always hard because I never know how to feel. She deserved better from both him and I. I never knew what she was telling him when she laid in his apartment and I’m sure he never knew about our conversations. The only picture is one I snuck while she was looking at the video to our song, too drunk to even notice the flash. Did she play our song for him? Did she introduce him to the music video with her head so perfectly nestled under his chin like she did with me on my couch? She was never mine; she was either under me or him and the influence. I wonder what that kind of tugging did to her psyche, but I never asked. I just kind of waited for her to blurt it out in her weaker moments…

“8 doobies to the face…fuck dat/12 bottles in a case…nigga, fuck dat/2 pills and a half-weight…nigga, fuck dat/Got a high tolerance when your age don’t exist…”

My Beautiful Mistake makes those words seem so surreal. Who gives a shit about growing old when living in the now is so much more pleasurable? She had no concern to even know she would forever be suspended in that nonchalant pose. I wonder so many things when I stare at it. It feels ominous and dark; it’s also telling and intimate…

“Got a high tolerance when your age don’t exist…”

Timeless photos…

A.J. Armstrong listens to a lot of Drake late at night and tends to reminisce hard; this post was supposed to come out two days earlier. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My Beautiful Mistake

I followed my heart but every time I do, it gets me lost and left in the dark/But I think it’s clear this time, I guess; we’re just not compatible…

We were terrible for each other. I get it; we were both so self-destructive that we needed each other to justify why we were so fucked up. Our intoxication was killing us and we didn’t care. We kissed with numb lips and altered emotions. The arguments took such a toll that you finally realized how unhealthy our encounters were. It would be for the best…if I weren’t so worried about your wellbeing.

I didn’t even know you were in so much pain the first time we decided to deal with each other. You hid it just as well as I hid mine. You laughed with the same halfhearted smile creeping along your face; it fooled me at first. The jokes didn’t mean anything to you, either. I never noticed and kept feigning confidence and goofiness. Who would have thought a friendship birthed out of keeping up appearances would become something much more? Our arms show the stress of life’s obstacles and each alternating puff alleviated us from it all.

The worst part is that I barely remember. Every vodka-chased pill and loosely rolled Swisher Sweet was more than temporary bliss. Everything was so hazy; it was picturesque in such a terrible way. Descending into a hellish trap never seemed so desirable before. Judgment wasn’t allowed to exist in this glossy-eyed microcosm. Every vulnerable and slurred sentence only spoke to the shared injury we wrongly attempted to run from. Every blank stare became so irresistible and made everything that followed so uninhibited. Desperately holding onto someone falling off the same slope felt oddly comforting.

It is what it is…

I cling to the memories, trying to leave out the toll it eventually took on us both. The final argument was unhealthy and both our stubbornness was only fueled by the intoxication. The very thing- our thing- that made us close tore us apart. Our hands never stayed off each other but this final encounter was created out of the wrong passion. I whispered terrible things and grabbed for your neck clumsily. I saw fear in those dilated pupils and can only now cope with those actions properly.

In our self-destruction, everything was so impulsive. I just hope the death of our friendship provides a healthier lifestyle for us both. Our relationship wasn’t created in sobriety so I never act on my many passing thoughts. Those hazel eyes and slender legs came with a price I almost killed myself in paying. All of those altered times meant everything yet left no moments I can specifically recount. Clarity didn’t come easy because of what I barely remember and I can only hope you feel the same.

A.J. Armstrong is a relieved friend of both and the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My First Poem

“The Mandatory Poem About Black Love and Black Women That Every Black Poet Feels Compelled to Write Because of Some Ridiculous Ideology That Makes This Subject a Prerequisite Point of Conversation Amongst a Pseudo-“Enlightened” Group of Neo-Soul Negroes That Show Up at Poetry Readings in Shirts Made From Hemp With Their Unkempt Dreadlocks Flailing Over Their Faces as They Eat Ostrich Burgers With a Fork and Knife as They Trade Condescending Glances Amongst Each Other as They View Me Wrist-Deep in a Plate of Hot Wings Covered in Excessive Amounts of Old Bay Seasoning in a Booth Next to Another Group of “Artists” Clad in Chicletas Reciting India.Arie Lyrics as They Prepare to Give Their Excruciatingly Long and Drab Depictions of the Magical Prowess of Afro-centric Sensuality in an Attempt to Stay in Their Manufactured, ‘Love Jones’-Inspired Microcosms While Real Poets With Valid and Creative Spins on Daily Life Are Eschewed by Those Who Believe Social Consciousness Exists Only After Reading Cliffnotes of the Works of Amiri Baraka and Shunning Traditional Bodywash in Favor of Bathing in an All Too Common Aura of Inflated and Unwarranted Sense of Self-Pride in Urban Awareness Because Their Bathroom Sinks Contain Ambi Products Free of Dyes and Other Ingredients The White Man Apparently Places in Products Solely to Keep Niggers From Realizing Their Truly Annoying Potential to be Pretentious at Their Newfound Nubian Awakening While Maintaining a Patronizing Tone for Any Black Man That Actually Takes Pride in Being Honest With Himself.”

(Insert poem here.)

A.J. Armstrong is not a fan of Bohemian A-Holes. He is also the creator of the Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities.