World

The Day The Parties Stopped

Lord, let us party tonight; cuz tomorrow they might kill us all…

The locals show out every Sunday. The floor is sticky and slippery, giving slightly as the wanton movements of the bodies above twist and grind. We drink, we dance, we fight, and we leave…

The sun shone unobstructed, fooling those peering out their windows, hopeful the late February day may promise warmer temperatures and a sign of an early spring. The second semester was in full swing, removed from the early January renewal that saw students reunite with one another after the winter break. Those early days saw a swollen campus filled with parents dropping their children off, only slightly less emotional than their initial goodbyes the previous August. The nervous energy amongst the underclassmen was replaced by a knowing familiarity and comfort in navigating what was once a frightening new chapter. Seniors drove their cars throughout the campus slowly, music blaring, with their immediate future rapidly approaching their purview. In their windshields was the blinding light from the sun, promising a gorgeous spring in Greensboro. Today, however, the campus was light, waiting for the evening when students would return from the weekend.

Sundays are usually a return to normalcy. The school, noticeably empty from the admittedly homesick over the weekend, would see attendees return to their dorms, some with a crisp set of bills in their pocket, and most with a clean bag of laundry slung across their shoulders. Their makeshift homes seemed fresher in their absence, welcoming their renewed spirits. Sunday nights were usually a return to action. And Club Menage.

High Point Road housed any variety of late-night pleasures for the broke and pseudo rich alike. Strip clubs and tattoo parlors line the streets on the drive from the campus toward the mall, with nightclubs nestled on every few corners along the way. Menage sat behind a Wendy’s and was typically deserted during the day. Friday and Saturday nights there were pretty calm; most people found their way downtown, lines stretching down Greene Street with patrons mingling with the vendors selling hot dogs and bootleg hats. However, Sunday night belonged to Menage. While the weekend traffic was segregated between college students and actual Greensborians downtown, Menage was a hodgepodge of both. Florida Street and Pride Hall joked in the entry lines; cars from Randleman Road and Haley Hall fought for space across the street in the Total Wine parking lot; the McDonald’s saw traffic from North Eugene and the Aggie Village. Sundays at Menage were for the city, a collective effort to ignore the demands of the upcoming work week.

Menage is largely like any other nightclub; however, regulars came because of the slight nuances that separated it from their counterparts. Sure, there was a dancefloor and a stage, as there were for most other clubs in the city. Here, the bartenders overpour on specific drinks; their reasoning seemingly indiscriminate. It felt more of a practice of in-the-know patrons to learn which drinks were on this intimate menu, and which servers let the liquor pour freely into the clear plastic cups. There was a grill on a patio near a Dumpster that served the hungry with burgers, hot dogs, chicken wings, and fish plates that was just beyond a door that most assumed was a hallway leading to some unremarkable back area of the building. The place is a secretive society within a club that welcomed everyone, and the slight pleasures of being familiarized with its unique atmosphere made it irresistible.

Scattered Black bodies occupied the dancefloor, mostly reserved and mingling. The ground wasn’t yet littered with those overfilled plastic cups and worn wristbands. The stage had remnants of a local rap group that dragged a drummer along to comport themselves as a live band. A mic stand and a single cymbal occupied a corner, their owners unconcerned about the waves of men and women dancing tonight, their clutter gathered around high heels and Nikes. A prepopulated playlist thumped through the speakers; the resident DJ never showed up before 10:30. A man in an outdated Gino Green hoodie and jeans leaned on his stool, no doubt at the mercy of the drinks taken in that Total Wine parking lot, his eyes focused solely on the leggings and fitted pants of the women strolling by.

Tonight – February 26 – began as a release, but ended in a combination of commiseration and unified angst.

At about ten that night, the news trickled in slowly and without context. A Black kid. Skittles. A hoodie. On campus, PlayStations were paused, and the music didn’t intermingle with the raucousness in the dorm room halls as much. A group of residents gathered in the second-floor common area of Pride Hall, with one girl giving periodic updates from her phone. Another woman, in Barbee Hall, muted the TV, garnering puzzled looks from her roommate and her girlfriend. The campus stood still, seemingly taking a collective breath to process. Maybe the cars with the loud stereo systems drove past, but their vibrating trunks caught the ear of almost no one tonight. And maybe a few individuals continued to dress for Sunday night at Club Menage, but they were greeted by an unwilling desire from their peers to move from the spots they occupied in those halls and common areas.

Trayvon Martin, a 17-year-old Miami native visiting his father and his fiancée in Sanford, Florida, had been shot and killed by a neighborhood watch coordinator. The facts, as reported, were that Martin was walking home from a convenience store, candy and drink in hand, when George Zimmerman, a resident of the Twin Lakes housing community, seemingly appointed himself arbiter of all things threatening. What ensued was a confrontation that left Martin dead, and audio of a phone call between Zimmerman and the local authorities in which Zimmerman was explicitly asked to not follow the teen. While the days and months following the murder proved to be devastating, both with Zimmerman being found innocent of second-degree murder and his subsequent boorish and repulsive smugness toward a community still in mourning, tonight – February 26 – felt overwhelmingly hopeless.

Still, We danced into those bright strobe lights, phones buzzing nonstop. We ordered drinks, innately knowing the week would punish Us for simply existing, even apart from another damning example of “white authority” to which We were not yet privy. We listened for songs that We knew would fill the room with exuberance, women stepping gingerly toward the seductive glow; men hurried bottom-shelf liquor into their bodies before doing the same. We bumped into someone We didn’t like, staring intently into Their eyes, resigned to whatever violence may result. We sat on the steps, twisting weed up, looking around for Our folks, phones still buzzing. We just hoped We could make it home with some of that light.

Black pain can be both fatalistic and crushing, while being understood to be pain not of Our own doing, but of the circumstances that have arrived to collect whatever some determining body deemed more valuable than Ours chooses to amass. That body is constructed to spread the inherently flawed and historical ideal of Black bodies being lesser, and therefore disposable. They serve to excuse, rationalize, and – grossly – justify the inhumane. What is even more incriminatory about this wicked, never ending, and inescapable pain is that it is simply a burden We have been conditioned to work around. It is as if the hope for lessening that pain is silly; that the focus should be on cohabitation with, and not elimination of, this pain. Merely treating the symptoms of this pain – laughing in spite of, numbing Ourselves because of, and struggling to prevail in the face of – is the concession offered to us. The causes of this pain are permanent, unchanging despite the best efforts of those afflicted, because the creators of this pain are strident in their efforts to maintain their normalcy. That is why Our laughs are heavy and hearty; the weight of this construction tinges even Our most carefree and effervescent moments.

But still, We danced. We finally learned that the world had let Us down yet again. We gathered around, arms on shoulders, and communed. We were reminded that the world outside these doors were unkind; maybe even more so to these older, lighthearted versions of Us. We knew that, and carried on as We were, because in that moment, We had to. This was but another derivative plotline of a sequel retread so frequently, We no longer had the energy to protest its opening night. We danced because We were defeated. Again. We were lost out there, but here – HERE – We were isolated only in danger We could tangibly see and feel and touch. And tonight, February 26, We were above inconsequential conflict. We danced together because once those bright fluorescent lights turned on and We were forced to trot back to Our waiting realities, We were no longer unguarded from them.

At the fountain near the Aggie Village, a young man from Pine Hills, Florida – a 40-minute drive from where a 17-year-old Black child was murdered for having the audacity to exist – sat for hours in pure resignation. There were no tears, and his eyes focused on the spurting water shooting up from the middle of the fountain. In those long solemn moments, and in the midst of a crowd that had gathered around him, he couldn’t help but feel that the water that continuously went recycled through the fountain system and lightly dusted his already frigid arms was analogous to exactly what We were all destined to be. To which all of Us were relegated to, eventually. That no matter how dogged the attempt to escape this cycle, We were simply forced to be subjected to the same result over and over.

Monday passed with expected glumness. The nervous energy of the younger students returned, along with an uncertainty they could not fully explain. The seniors still drove through, their radios more muted and reserved. Classes were melancholy, filled with the silences Sunday’s events filled awkwardly. Conversations were brief, as if a barrier of despair lingered in the air, blocking the words that followed the handshakes and semi-hugs in front of the cafeteria.

Trauma is indirect at times, aiming its arrow of hurt upward, eventually descending into a crowd of people otherwise ignoring its ambush as best they can. We were dancing, laughing, and enjoying the small microcosm that has been afforded Us because of their unwillingness to share their freedoms on any significant scale. To be Black is to be reminded repeatedly of the frivolity of Our humanity. To be constantly forced to accept the reality of why so many Black bodies were no longer able to share in the momentary successes and brief flings of joy granted to Us. Reality had creeped into Our shrouded and private dance, and demanded to buy Us a strong drink while whispering a low but firm reminder of a power that lies so very far beyond Our reach. And yet, the drink spilled into Our stomachs cleanly as We swallowed, clenching Our jaws at this condescending gesture in anticipation of what may come later…

Awareness can be convenient in its arrival and distasteful in its digestion. Trayvon Martin was not Me in fact, but he was Me in essence. Trayvon Martin was Him in the front of class, jotting notes furiously in an attempt to understand Advanced Statistics. Trayvon was Her, walking in front of Smith Hall scrolling through her iPod Touch. He could very well be a Nigga many of Us cannot stand, right up until Their life is tried by those that are eagerly intent of destroying. Mundane territorial matters of self against others that look like Us, for right now, anyway, just seem…less important than they did before Sunday, February 26. What mattered then to so many of Us was that We danced and lived. And what mattered so much more as We learned the evil that We battled so fiercely to escape was inescapable, was that We – jointly and perpetually – did not let that be the day the parties stopped.

We grieve different; A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

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

TAOTFH: Heaven’s Boogie 2: Alpha and Omega

Humble thineself…

DVD cases litter the floor around my cot. The Karate Kid sat, opened and beaten from years of wear. Rocky III served as a top for a plastic cup filled to the brim with discarded sunflower seed shells. The Space Jam label has long since slipped out of its plastic sleeve and found its way elsewhere, presumably the trash can of one of my bunkmates. Three years have passed since my first and second deaths, and the subsequent recollection of my first dance-off in Heaven eats at me nonstop. My mind immediately recalled the dubious nature of my defeat to Jesus, ultimately costing me a space in Heaven. Three years…three long, frustrating, grating, discontent years have done nothing to make me any more consolable; I grew more apoplectic as each day slogged along. I ejected Stomp the Yard from my laptop, and ran my thumb across the trackpad until I pulled up a date saved and marked urgent in my calendar: January 20, 2018. My right eyebrow twitched slightly; it was the only demonstrative representation of what echoed in the annals of my mind. Jesus will be on the receiving end of the most merciless and vengeful beatdown He has-and will have-ever experienced. I never broke my gaze from that calendar as I reached for The Dark Knight Rises.

This committee, comprised of the 12 Apostles of Nazareth, was not able to come to a unanimous decision regarding your acceptance or denial into The Kingdom of The Lord…

Jesus was a sucker for that, man. And also, how the hell was it fair for Him to be judged by His dusty group of sycophant, cowardly moochers? I’d like to think that if you gave your Boy up to the Feds after He spent the past 10-plus years feeding you bums, the least you could do is act like His Twist is innovative and fresh. You think The Outlawz ever told Tupac he rhymed ‘Hennessy’ with ‘enemies’ too often? No, they shut up and let Pac pay their Pacific Bell bills. I saw John’s face during that battle; it was the hollow enthusiasm of a man grateful for the free meals but tired of them all being unleavened bread. He seemed the most likely to be swayed. At one point, he placed a clenched fist over his mouth, stifling laughs as I pretended to spin Jesus’ head on the floor while doing a Bob and Weave like a St. Lunatic. I figured if I could get any type of stalemate, there would be strong consideration for letting me past those gates. John was my best hope.

How many special people change?

How many lives are living strange?

Where were you while we were getting hiiiigh?

Was it my youth and its expected ignorance? Was it the social awkwardness that was misconstrued as antisocial and discriminatory? Was I just an asshole? How did I wind up here? Did I not respond to my texts quickly enough? I know who Stacie Lane is…does God have a problem with Stacie Lane? I feel like that’s His problem, not mine. I own my shame, God (if that’s even Your real name); perhaps You should do the same. You sat there and saw Your Son appropriate my culture and beat me based on a group of His peers emboldening said appropriation; I saw You bend Your arm, looking to nestle Your pasty face into the fold…

Slowly walking down the hall

Faster than a cannonball

Where were you while we were getting hiiiigh?

For three months, I became Bruce Wayne in that underground prison. I ran around the entirety of the large square compound, envisioning my calf muscles willing my legs to push through the sandy California shores alongside Rocky and Apollo. I did ab crunches upside down from the bunkbeds adjacent from my own cot like a young Curtis Jackson, furiously preparing for either a battle or a brawl. But mostly I sat. I sat on the edge of that cot, glaring at my laptop screen. Rage burned the tip of my earlobes as Jesus’ immaculate portrait stared back at me. A ring of light shown about His entire upper body, and my pupils projected the hellfire that churned about in my stomach. The other tenants in the Purgatory Appeals Program walked about daily, and, without a word, acknowledged what we both knew to be true: win or lose, there was no way I would be returning.

Jesus threw His robe into the overzealous audience and Steve Jobs dropped the beat…

That’s when I realized it was all a demeaning and twisted construction designed to humiliate and shun, not to humble and genuflect. Shattering disappointment sent waves through my lower body, causing me to stagger slightly toward the dancefloor. My focus, once singular, ricocheted throughout the entirety of my psyche and made my shoulders droop heavily at my impending embarrassment and exile. It became abundantly clear: THIS was the purgatory that was described to me upon my arrival into the Appeals Program. However, there would be no proving myself worthy of living forever amongst the blessed; there would only be the opportunity to lose at the hands of Jesus every five years (unless I die immediately upon my return to Earth). I danced my heart out, vacating my thoughts and ignoring the faces and snickers of a crowd in on such a cruel joke. Unfortunately, my impiety never warranted Hell. No, it deserved something much harsher.

Final Round: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Jesus of Nazareth

Jesus walked slowly to the dance area in a black robe and red and black Converses. Prince and Lil Peep flanked Him as Gordie Howe held an Apple HomePod over his head. “No Problem” by Chance the Rapper filled the air and Howe twirled around like one of those girls at boxing matches with the big ass cards waving about. I knew I didn’t want another battle with this Man, and I now knew I’d never ever get to see those Golden Strippers. I sat on my floating stool and took in the pageantry and theatrics one last time.

I walked slowly toward the center of the dancefloor, shaking slightly. I could make out the faces of so many people I revered during my lifetime, from Alicia Tyler to the old Taylor Swift. I had a scorching desire to walk amongst them, but found composure in the realization that I would never be able to. Jesus and the shimmering aura that followed Him stood three feet in front of me, and I knew what I had to do. As He extended His hand in a hollow and condescending gesture of sportsmanship, I held back tears while my left fist hurdled towards His perfect jawline…

I didn’t stop swinging until He was on the ground. The tears fell freely now, and I reached for a set of brass knuckles I had stashed in the inner pocket of my joggers. The next blow landed clean across Jesus’ nose, sending His holy blood and mucus onto my t-shirt. Another shot caught Him directly in His mouth. The crowd looked on, stunned frozen at my audaciousness. But no one dared intervene. They- much like Jesus- understood exactly what was happening: I had enough of their system. I stood over a bloodied Messiah and through puffy, welling eyes, watched Him mutter in a hushed and forced voice, “you don’t have to do this, My son…”

I blinked back more tears and raised my fist again for one last blow.

“I never had a choice.”

“Wake up the dawn and ask her why

A dreamer dreams she never dies

Wipe that tear away now from your eyyye…”

It had only been about two days since arriving here, but I know I did what was necessary. This home is not ideal, but I broke the vicious cycle that would have been my eternity. The lesser of two evils is evil itself, and not the evil that lurks behind veiled intent and dishonest promises. I’m oddly content at this realization, and it allows me to carry out my days with some sort of purpose as I toil away. No longer present are the daily Sisyphean efforts disguised as penance. What lies all around me is tangible self-actualization, and with that, peace.

And someday you will find me…

Caught beneath the landslide…

In a Champagne Supernova in the skyyy…

Read Part One Here

Jesus knows my heart; He also knows these hands intimately. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Still

Baby, you can lay there.

Baby, you don’t have to go out. Your friends seem to want you too, though.

I want to be forgotten, yet remembered. I want to be the one to poison my ego, not them. Why aren’t they sad about me being sad? Hell, is she? But really, how are they so happy when I can’t seem to be? What don’t I understand?

Baby, you dragged me to that used CD shop and your face lit up and you picked up this Terence Trent D’Arby album. I don’t know how you came to know about him, but you put this in my hands and…your face; baby your mouth curved up at one end. It wasn’t a smile but…but I have to take what I can get. You handed this to me and held your hands out. You weren’t begging, but you darted your eyes back and forth between the CD case and the counter, just hoping. And I didn’t think twice about it; anything to give you happiness is a small price to pay…

Music has dictated my mood for as long as I can remember. It’s emboldened me enough to throw eggs through your windshields. It’s infused me with enough confidence to saunter up behind your girlfriend at a pre-dawn. It’s blared through my headphones on the train, helping me forget that where I arrive is a stop, and not a destination. It’s helped me to believe, to dream, to cry, to pontificate, to seduce…to fucking smile. Knowing that, why can’t it get me off this couch?

Baby, I want to see you smiling. I-I just don’t know what to do and I can’t lie to you; I wish that I could, because seeing you like this makes me sad.

I remember when you would run around my office building, selling your paintings and writings to my coworkers for fifty cents. They couldn’t believe anybody so young had the confidence you had, baby…

I remember how much Christmas meant to you; baby, I would hang your stocking up over the TV and watch your face when you reached in it for our 12 days of Christmas. I used to cringe when you would go up that ladder to hang lights on our gutters, but you smiled the entire time and I just, I..uh…I don’t know where that kid went.

Maybe I’ve been insensitive. Maybe I just don’t understand. I don’t know. I just miss my baby.

The television illuminated the room, as it was the only light that flowed in, even in the midday. The shades were completely drawn closed. The sight of barren lawns and naked shrubbery only served as conduits and understandable excuses. That TV failed to brighten anything other than my complete disinterest.

Baby, what happened?

Baby…please, PLEASE tell me how I can help you.

…I ju…I just don’t know what to do, Joan. He won’t move. No…he hasn’t said much of anything. My baby is hurting and I don’t know…I-I don’t know, Joan…

The sun’s sudden intensity shone directly on my face, making my lower eyelids flinch painfully upward, as they barely had to shield my bloodshot eyes over the past week. Why was she still here? And- for the love of everything holy- why did she open these curtains??

My back yelled at me as I adjusted myself. My legs seemed to exhale as I straightened them out onto the arm of the couch. My neck resigned itself to an uncomfortable state of commiseration and had completely gone numb; it had no plans of returning during my sudden readjustment. My stomach growled, awakened at the idea that its’ host may not be dead after all. My shoulder, completely defying my brain’s wishes, relaxed at her touch.

Baby, I tried; I made an appointment for you. This isn’t you. Not this time of year. You aren’t yourself. I can’t force you to do shit but- for my health- please see this specialist I found. Happy birthday.

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

Maxwell’s Silver Hammer

“Joan was quizzical; studied pataphysical

Science in the home.

Late nights all alone with a test tube.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Maxwell Edison, majoring in medicine,

Calls her on the phone.

“Can I take you out to the pictures,

Joa, oa, oa, oan?”

But as she’s getting ready to go,

A knock comes on the door…”

Do you know the story of Victor? Did you empathize with his heartache? Could you fault him for delving into his experiments as an escape from his sorrow? Seriously…have you heard this story? The one about the young scientist chipping away at human limitation, one oversized limb at a time? Can you imagine yourself as the engineer of such a destructive force? Do you know the story of Victor and the creature that destroyed things that did not understand him? Do you know the story of the creature that came to be known as Frankenstein? Surely you know how this creature evokes fear and revulsion amongst the “civil” world? Do you know the story of Victor Frankenstein, the creator of a savage that has taken the brunt of the burden for his own indiscretion?

They’re hopeless, and want what you have. They want your opportunity, your privilege, your resources; hell, they’ll settle for your general right to exist. What they have is a set of very limited options and detrimental influences. They’re hopeless, and will TAKE what you have, right? If that were even possible. If they weren’t confined to the South Side of Chicago, tucked conveniently away and left to prey on each other, that is. The savages- by design- have their habitat, and you have yours.

Has history painted Victor in nearly the same light as his creation? Or has the iniquity fallen solely on a creature that struggled to come to terms with such a dismal reality? Why is there no outcry for the lack of opportunity by those with the ability to provide such? Why is one viewed as a sympathetic figure, while the other has been labeled a savage nuisance? Furthermore, why is their so-called “barbarity” met with a convenient obliviousness? Why is their existence condemned?

Accountability rarely falls onto those in position to create change. That responsibility somehow falls onto those trapped in an environment of someone else’s creation. Savages created and placed in less than ideal conditions…

Victor eventually came to understand the error in his judgment. His recklessness afforded him a place as the victim. Hindsight has deemed him the tragic genius. He was unfortunate enough to create something that should not have been and a system in place that he himself would object to. He is pitied, while the true victims are admonished. But pointing out that dichotomy is frowned upon…

The protests and discussions are all well and fine. Town halls to address Black on Black violence open a very important dialogue, but where do YOU go after you leave these conventions? Home, away from the turmoil that surrounds the very people you claim to “educate” and “help”. Weird how quickly hollow intelligence dissolves into an obtuse, sheltered, wiggity-wack bunch of fuckboys, huh?

Yet you come and tell them they’re all a bunch of insensible animals…

Trapped. Isolated. Far-removed. But THEY’RE the ones lacking self-awareness…

Do you remember when the savage murdered Frankenstein’s family? You don’t, because that literary device just may make you face your guilt. And who wants that when deflecting is simpler, right? Right??

You remember the monster. You remember the damage, disruption, and disorder. The unabashed anger and brazen savagery from this beast. But do you remember how he was created? South Side wasn’t made by Us; it was created.

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

Insomnia

“But I’m afraid of not being able to laugh anymore
What’s life going to become once we don’t have anymore
…Heroes?”

-Cee-Lo Green

I get tired. I sometimes drift off in front of my social media feed. My eyes tend to get sooooo heavy from pontificating with strangers. Commiserating with you is draining; I apologize if I distract myself with more pressing and immediate concerns. Your stupidity tires me out and I need a break. If you knew how dumb and shortsighted you are, then you’d need a snooze, too. Correcting you saps the little energy I have, but monitor our Black Lives with an otherworldly attentiveness, you little vanguard, you. You deserve my sincere apology for correcting whatever absurdities wafted out the midnight oil of condescension and misguided righteous gallivanting. I’ll just look past the fact you’re delving into a very dangerous and harmful logic. Yeah…naw. Good luck getting me to comport myself as someone willing to acquies…

“…Yo, Young Militant Facebook Jerk, I had this weird dream. I dreamt that my ex got back with me and gave me Chlamydia. Chlamydia, yeah. But here’s the weird thing; she got it from Katt Williams and he was chasing me around, apparently mad I took my girl back from him…

…Dozed off, sorry. #BlackLivesMatter made idiots of a few that garner reverence by impressing other idiots. The share button only helps if you can discern between validity and propaganda, champ. It kinda sucks because your intentions are (to you) noble. We get it; nothing else invades your immaculate consciousness…

“…But dig this part…everybody running with Katt in my dream were my friends in real life. So I had like five people chasing and shooting at me. My ex doubled back to ol’ boy and I was just running by myself until I finally got to my mother’s house…”

Shit. Fell asleep. I do wonder how YOU condemning ME for losing focus of an issue isn’t egregious in its own right. It seems totally counterproductive and unnecessary. Why are our “leaders” continuously slinking back into the pack to make sure all of us are fixated on the same thing? And why does your indignation only apply to others? Oh, to be so aware of everything except your own actions, Young Wack Hotep Brother. I have no problem pointing a finger directly in the face of this hypocrisy, because I have never claimed to be too involved to do otherwise.

“Yoooo…they all pulled out guns and I couldn’t run anymore because apparently Chlamydia makes you really slow. So I just stood there…I STOOD there, dude…they all had guns on me. Did I mention that before?? Well anyway, they all sat there ready to shoot when my ex popped up in the window and had one of those bullets Angelina Jolie had in Wanted…yeah, the ones that boomerang around the room…so, yeah, she shot in the window and hit all of them in the che…”

Those covers had me lazy. Carry on with your conquests, you valiant social media trooper. Disperse your wisdom by inundating us with questionable information on the basis the headlines alone appease to a certain sensibility we should all be required to share. Condemn us because we find time to laugh, joke, and relax. Forgive us if our outrage isn’t incessant while our awareness is meandering. Call me obtuse and take pity on me for not occupying the same post with you, scanning the horizon with aimless zeal. I suppose taking any regard of my own Black Life at times is selfish and unfocused. Forgive me.

“So they all sat there shaking on the floor and my ex crawled through the window and threw a small vial in my direction. She said, ‘sorry for giving you The Clap’, and walked out through the front door. It bothered me because I had Chlamydia; did she not know ‘The Clap’ refers to Gonorrhea? Because I can’t deal with somebody that’s not #Woke.

Look, the battles are ceaseless. The problem with our midnight crusaders isn’t that there is no recognition of the endless nature of our issues; it’s that my deviance is incorrectly identified as resignation. It’s that watching- and not subsequently analyzing- is equivalent to knowledge for you folk. I am not stepping away from this fight; I am simply regrouping in order to determine a more effective approach. Why barge into the middle of a sociopolitical issue while alienating those that share your desire for change? If fights were meant to be around-the-clock solo missions, there would be no need for a more rested set of eyes to ever defend our livelihoods, right?

“What you mean did I chase after her?? She gave me Chlamydia and- through her “research”- called it ‘The Clap’. Her ignorance is going to kill us both if I allow it…”

It is not because I do not care. Nor is it because I am unaware. My reticence is not hesitance. Consciousness is a weapon unto oneself under YOUR sanctimony; look both ways before you lob grenades. Sleep because you dare to dream, not because you believe your truth is the one and only. Understand your platitudes are simply blinders; they are not shades.

#YouCouldStayWokeButYouShouldProbablyTakeYoAssToSleepForALittleBit

A.J. Armstrong is smarter than you; he’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

New Year, New You (But Not Really Because You’re An…)

“I’ll never call yo mama outta her name, but I’ll damn sure call her Collect…”

That’s the last one I promise. New Year, New Me, amiright? Besides, it ain’t my fault yo mama agrees with me…and answers my calls.

“New Year, New Me!”

“Cutting all the negativity out my life in 2016!”

“No more new baby faaaaaaathers/mothers…”

And, save for the part about not getting knocked up (or knocking up) AGAIN, I believe them all. Because New Year, a New EVEN SHITTIER Version of the Douche We Already Knew. I, for one, appreciate the unintentional transparency. If the move is to announce what will and won’t remain in your life, it’s mighty considerate to remind us the most ugly aspects of it will remain. Can’t pour syrup on shit and call it decency, you know?

I tend to consider myself a solutions-orientated person and I enjoy helping others. With that in mind, your shortcomings aren’t the result of some extrinsic shitstorm that meandered into your life somehow. It’s not as complex as you conveniently seem to make it. No, the problem (and remember, you can fill oceans with my compassion) lies in the fact that you’re a terrible human being that just isn’t good at being alive. You suck. The people that have enabled you to suck as bad as you do suck even more. Success and personal happiness aside, you’re a Shitkicking Assclown that probably shares posts on Facebook about what the best physical feature of each zodiac sign should be (as if each sign is basically a long ass incestuous breeding ground to ensure that all Scorpios have shiny fingernails. That’s not how any of this works, you SHIT. SIPPING. ASS. HAT). Or maybe you stop in doorways to check your phone while six people try to get by. I COULD continue to wish all the inconveniences of life onto you, exclusively and concurrently, or I can try to help these poor, lost Douchenozzles…

How do I know you’re an awful, insufferable person? Because, you Dried Pit Stain, you’ve been telling on yourself all year. From declaring yourself as ‘petty’, to your douchey thinkpieces, to your bathroom selfies, to the excessive sharing of your ugly ass baby, there’s a long trail of turd nuggets that point me in the direction of your delusional self-aggrandizing. Maybe you’re cognizant of your behavior; perhaps you aren’t. Or maybe- most likely- you just aren’t aware of how much of an Asshat you really are.

It isn’t entirely your fault, you poor Asswipe. Your friends and family have allowed you to become blissfully unaware of your transformation from irritating to fully terrible. Facebook is mostly culpable. There is no other space, digitally or otherwise, that applauds and encourages your increasingly egocentric conduct. Who else would take pride in seeing a picture of a weak ass Chipotle burrito bowl or read about how Blacks should be celebrating Kwanzaa because…? You don’t even know, either. That’s the worst part. You didn’t even read the article; you saw a heading that KIND of applied to something you MIGHT be persuaded to think is true so you shared it with all of us. I thank you for inundating my feed with that asinine shit. I also thank you for allowing me to see all the unsavory things in your personal life that you ought to be more hesitant about sharing. You’re not terrible because of the others that encourage this shitshow; you’re terrible for letting your shitty decisions bathe in their approval.

So how can we make you a less shitty version of yourself in 2016? Simple. Shut the hell up. Just stop saying or doing anything. Period. Don’t go outside. Don’t go online. Become a recluse; only appear in public to do whatever it is you do to earn money. Go home every night and sit in an armchair and let life pass you by because you clearly don’t contribute anything to it. Disappear from the collective consciousness of the social world entirely. If you have to welcome some of that negativity back into your life in 2016 for that to happen…collateral damage, right? Just don’t tell us about it this time next year. And give yo mama my Skype ID for me.

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

The 13th Floor

“Something’s gotta change

Sounds of laughter and happiness turn my teardrops to rain

Been bearing this burden for too many of my days

Looks like breezes of Autumn done finally blew my way

Like memories of yesterday…”

-“13^th Floor/Growing Old”

Play this song- and nothing else- at my funeral. Please and thank you.

When I think about death, the first thing that comes to mind is that creepy ass song the choir was singing at the beginning of “Tha Crossroads” video. I don’t know what age normal, well-adjusted people come to terms with their own mortality- I would guess sometime after you wake up and realize your body doesn’t work and your face looks like a soggy pork chop- but I remember becoming very aware of my own death right after that video. Like IMMEDIATELY after seeing that video. Since that point, I oftentimes think about how and when I may die. And it freaks people the HELL out.

We’re not talking about my actual death today, though (January 1, 2026. Shot. Vegas Strip. Preferably over something asinine as hell). It’s just crazy to have discussions with other people and they, in large part, tend to deflect any talk regarding their deaths. It’s like the ‘I Don’t See Color’ argument for your inevitable reaaaaally long nap, but whatever.

Death is one thing; what you’re leaving behind is another. And all too often, we see people leaving behind children that aren’t even old enough to fully understand the concept of death, much less process it. It’s also stealing away a significant piece of their innocence long before the world, and life in general, gets its chance. And when I compare that to my life as a 29 year-old man with no kids, I get so disheartened by my next thought: I’m going to have to try so much harder to not die if I have a child.

Don’t misinterpret “not trying my hardest to not die” as “I’m determined to end it all” because that is simply not true. Being alive is great; I just don’t want to have to try insanely hard to do it, though. As long as I can play video games and laugh at people calling Internet strangers ‘fatherless’ on Twitter, I’m good. I might start to lose that lust for life the day my body gives out and I can’t play basketball or hit the batting cages, but hopefully I have time. If I start shitting on myself and have to be wheeled around with a weak ass shawl covering my bony legs, then I’ll know I never truly had any friends because somebody should have locked me in their garage and turned the car on like ten years prior. I heard getting old is glorious or whatever, buuuuuut…that’s really not my thing. I’ll be cool if I accidentally break my whole neck in a freak accident involving a belt, two Brazilian hand models, four candles and a cheese grater at like 55. I was going somewhere with this at one point…

Oh, yeah. Kids force you to try harder to stay alive. That’s a lot of responsibility and pressure, dude. That means I’d have to start watching my sodium intake, start going to doctors that actually speak English, and stop dressing like an approachable drug dealer. No more using Old Bay like a dipping sauce. No more Slim Jims and orange soda for breakfast. No more raw shrimp and chicken seasoning for snacks. No more going to bars where there’s a very real possibility I might get hit over the head with an empty Scotch tumbler (I’m from D.C.; even the thugs are bourgeois now). So basically I have to give up everything I love. So yeah, I might not die as soon, but damnit I apparently won’t be dying happy, either.

I know at this point it sounds like I’m complaining, which is convenient because that is EXACTLY WHAT I’M DOING. I fear the day I no longer have the option to take a bunch of Ketamine and drive down sidewalks at 3am with no headlights on. Not something I’ve done before but hey…never know what I’ll be interested in in my 30s. Never say never, amiright? But for all my complaining, I say that to say this: I, and most of you, will gladly make that sacrifice each and every time. It would be a very nominal thing to do, in fact. It’s not about us living for others; it’s about staying alive for others. I live for me; I’m selfish that way. But to want to be around just to see pieces of you grow and experience life is so instinctive and innate, it kind of makes me believe that despite so, so, SO many acts of hatred we have witnessed as of late, most people are intrinsically good and just. I just want to be able to look in my child’s eyes and tell him or her that I’m trying my hardest to stay alive. I also want to look a woman in the eye and promise her I’ll never die right before we have sex like that scene in Team America so…I mean…take my words with the grain of salt I guess I might have to stop eating one day.

I only hope my friends aren’t assholes; they better wait until I’m dead to start dying themselves. How selfish would it be to make me feel bad for missing your funerals, man? Have some class. 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