World

Agamemnon’s Manifesto

I am the reason for indulgence, for I am King of all I survey. I was birthed into royalty, washed by the blessings of gods, and feared by even the powerful. My significance is not simply conjecture; it is fact. I exist because I am necessary. The heinous crimes of my ancestors did nothing to prevent my ascension. I am both builder and destroyer. The greatest warriors of our time are indebted to me. And for my bravery, honor, and loyalty, the spoils of war are mine and mine alone. I am not only King. I am God.

I am omnipresent, for my influence has only become more formidable with the passing of time. Look what I have created some three thousand years later. I am selfish and deservedly so. My gratification should be instantaneous and the priority of others. I am entitled to what I want and whomever I choose. I am an advocate of the affluent. I am a fighter for the entitled. The world shall be carried on the scarred backs of the lowly and placed in the opulent dwellings of the fortunate.

I am a ruler. My beliefs trump those of all others, for I do not deem their conviction worthy. I condemn those that are a threat to my hubris. I am appalled and defensive when asked to explain my prejudices and chauvinisms. I am a leader and a lawmaker; I do not tolerate disrespect. Soldiers that history exalts and idolizes dared not attempt such. I will admonish any plebeian insubordination thusly.

I am self-important. My accomplishments are no longer relevant; my mere presence alone is worth the undivided attention of friends and strangers alike. I demand that you care. I command you to care. I am the center of a microcosm that requires your unwavering devotion to my vanity. I am your King. Therefore, you will understand why the adulation of my followers will not be reciprocated. I am your leader. I am above you.

I am a God. I am the most high. There are millions of men and women who believe they are to be mentioned in the same vein as I and this disturbs me. You dare allow your society to afford you the comfort to speak so incredulously? I am a ruler of men, a leader of an empire, and favored by millions. Do you converse with the controllers of your destiny as fearlessly as I? Do the respected bow at your feet? Do the powerful relinquish their authority in deference? Will you leave behind a story rich in inspiration? What I have accomplished will forever be unattainable. You may not refer to me as anything less than the historical titan I truly am. History will quickly place your importance into its proper perspective.

I am the reason for indulgence. However, I am not the architect of your egotism, pride, and self-involved behavior. I was a victim of the jealousy and vengeance of others. Your downfall shall be of your own creation. You are not a God. You are not a ruler. You are not a king. You tumble blithely through life searching for confirmation for simply existing. Until your significance is more than mere estimation, you shall not be mentioned among Kings such as I, Agamemnon of Argos.

All of us really aren’t anything special; we just kinda THINK we are. 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…

TAOTFH: Heaven’s Boogie

“Jesus, this guy is good.”

“I know, my son,” a booming voice acknowledged from somewhere behind those tall, glittering gates…

Well shit…how the hell am I getting into Heaven if I can’t even beat the first person? A slight breeze whipped by my neck and caused my shoulders to tremble a little.

Three days ago

It had only been about 30 minutes since waking up in this place, on a cot in a cabin made of finished oak. There were rows of beds stretched endlessly in either direction. On my left, a man gyrated to whatever was playing in his earbuds. He didn’t seem old at all- I would have guessed 24 at the most- and sweat flew from his long, brown hair as he moved. Another young man on my right swatted at the air wildly. A bright red pair of Beats By Dre slid about which each gesture. After looking around, I realized everybody had some sort of headphone on. Most moved frantically, some danced, and others lay on their beds quietly. Confused, I searched around for some sort of clue as to why I was here with these people. Finally I found a small box sealed shut with masking tape. I ripped it open and found my own pair of Beats By Dre connected to a black iPod Touch. As I placed the headphones over my head, the iPod magically turned on and a deep, soothing voice began to explain everything I desperately wanted to know.

“On the evening of January 12, 2015, you were shot 3 times; twice in your chest and once in your head. You were unresponsive and left your Earthly life almost immediately. Although you were young in age- 29- you have left quite a polarizing impression on Heaven’s Acceptance Committee. 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. Because of their conflict, you were sent here, to the Purgatory Appeals Program. As such, you and everyone you see here will be forced to win your way into Heaven via a dance-off competition against Heaven’s elite. You will face three opponents that will be chosen at random and will dance to the song of your choice. Defeating all three will result in your acceptance into God’s Kingdom. However, should you lose to the first, you will be sentenced to an eternity in Hellfire. Should you lose to the second, you will be sent back to Purgatory where you will have the opportunity to win your way into Heaven again in five years. Should you defeat both but lose to your final opponent, you will be sent back to Earth to resume your life. This iPod will allow you to play any song of your choosing. Your dance-off will be held in three days in The Golden Gates-Courtyard Marriott Center in East Cloud, Outer Heaven. Good luck, my son…”

Well shit…

Round 1: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Silas of Macedonia

“D.J. Taz! That’s riiiiiiiiiiight! That’s riiiiiiiiiiie-i-e-iiiiiiight!!!”

Silas’ shoulders bobbed up and down as he worked his pelvis into the most unimaginable positions. He was nearly through his three-minute set and didn’t seem to tire at all. There was a one-legged Butterfly, then a Sprinkler. His transitions were seamless and his brown robe flapped around his bare feet for added effect. At this point, getting into Heaven wasn’t even my goal; I wanted those five years of practice to work on serving this fool something fierce. I didn’t think my routine was going to cut it. My only hope was to surprise the judges with my song selection…

“And we began to Rock…Steady! Steeeady rockin’ all night long! Rock…Steady! Rockin’ to the break of dawn!!!”

It was over after those first horns played over the Cloud’s iCloud storage and speaker system. The committee ate it up. John’s eyebrows arched all the way to the top of his forehead. Philip jumped up from his seat and yelled “YOOOOOOO” at the top of his lungs. Even Simon, the most reserved of the 12, ran from the table, covering his mouth the whole time. I had them.

A couple aggressive two-steps and stop-and-go heartbeat pantomimes sent that bum Silas to the sidelines with his rosary beads clenched firmly in his fist. I doubled over in laughter when David ran up to him screaming ‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH’ while extending a finger at Silas’ neck. If they’re all going to be this easy, then maybe I’ll get to see what these Golden Strippers working with, after all…

Round 2: The Fly Hobo of Uptown D.C. vs. Rachel of Paddan Aram

“Drop it down on it! Made me get a couple bands drop it down on it! Make you get a couple friends drop it down on it! Turn around drop it down, drop it down on it! Do it for a real nigga, do it for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’ for a real nigga! Go and do somethin’ for a boss! Do somethin’ for a boss, do somethin’!”

This shit was so unfair for so many reasons. First, Rachel wasn’t even dancing; she sat there and twerked for three minutes! The committee was all male, what could I possibly do to top this? Jacob ran over and started throwing gold coins at her as she took it low. Even I had a hard time not throwing these Earth dollars at her; this broad was going OFF! At that moment, I knew my Dougie wasn’t going to do ANYTHING. I had to change things up on the fly…

“MITCH CAUGHT A BODY BOUT A WEEK AGO!!!!”

I grabbed Jacob’s halo and threw that shit seven rows deep into the crowd of angels. My only hope was to do something so shocking that everyone would forget about Rachel throwing that thang around the arena floor. Until that point, I stayed pretty calm, doing some Bankhead Bounces and soft finger snaps. I hoped that made the halo toss seem even more disrespectful. I think it worked, too. Jacob stood by Rachel furious, but didn’t move because any disqualification would result in an automatic win for me. The committee was full of wide eyes and disbelief, so I jumped on their table and did my most violent Elmo Shmoney Dance; scrolls and cloaks flew everywhere. They had no choice but to advance me. I pointed two fingers at James and told him I’d get to tweakin’ on him if he didn’t…

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. Mickey Mantle and Wish Bone’s Uncle Charles flanked him as Steve Jobs held a Beats Pill over his head. “No Problem” by Lil’ Scrappy filled the air and Jobs twirled around like one of those girls at boxing matches with the big ass cards waving about. I knew I didn’t want it with this guy, but I had come too far to not get in to see these strippers. Jesus threw his robe into the overzealous audience and Jobs dropped the beat…

*The results of this battle are undisclosed. However, it can be assumed The Fly Hobo lost, as he was resuscitated at 1:37AM in Grady Memorial Hospital*

I can remember everything but that last battle. I will go to my (next) death convinced I was robbed, though. Oh yeah, Jesus is 4’11” with a thick Cajun drawl. Just so, you know, you’re not surprised when you meet him…

Silas and Rachel ain’t want this work. The Fly Hobo: The 2015 New TestaMOVE runner-up. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of the Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

:-)

Happy New Year, everybody! I hope whatever you guys were doing was awesome or whatever. I had a very peaceful January 1, thanks for asking. I even made some resolutions, which I typically don’t do. More specifically, I made three particular yearly declarations that I plan to abide by for, at minimum, the next twelve months. Resolution One: People are dumb. Is that technically a resolution? I guess it’s more fact than anything. But, again, people are dumb. I even made a hashtag: #YallDumb. Because y’all dumb. But I digress. Resolution Two: I’m going to stop mentioning how dumb people are. Even if I DID just create a hashtag called #YallDumb. No more calling people dumb. Even if it’s true. Resolution Three: I vow to only speak to you guys in a positive tone. No more calling people dumb and rationalizing it with ‘but I just created a hashtag!’ So let’s talk about some stuff…

Who is more awesome than Oprah Winfrey? She’s a total class act and a role model to young white women around the globe. There are so many reasons I admire her. Golly, where to start? I think I would have to say her newfound respect for Jay-Z is quite appealing to someone like me. It gives me something to strive for, actually. How cool is it to have someone admonish your profession and culture, gain their respect by making an insane amount of money in the process, and have that same person wrap their arms around you and gently whisper ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ in your ear years later? Oprah is downright decent. It only took hundreds of millions of dollars to redefine the lines of what’s unacceptable. Maybe if the ‘leaderless’ youth in Ferguson she so rightly criticized (constructively, of course. Oprah don’t be hatin’) or these underserved inner city children she so rightly lumped into a colored ball of wanton sneaker fiends could just stop making excuses and earn $520 million, then Goddess Winfrey shall bless you with her approval. And what on Earth is more coveted than Oprah’s consent to be a citizen deserving of respect?

People are entitled to their opinions, even when they are blatantly wrong and grossly off base. Please let me guide you to the right side of the argument since we are all about uplifting each other in 2015. The women (or “victims”, as some people have come to calling them) accusing Bill Cosby and the people bringing light to sexual assault aren’t terrible people, they’re just a tad misguided. They just don’t understand the issue doesn’t lie in the seriousness of the allegations levied against Cliff Huxtable; it lies in the attempted assassination of Black America’s TV dad. What is rape when THEY’RE TRYING TO BRING DOWN OUR FATHER BILL?!? Plus, Jill Scott said as much and the Founder of the Shea Butter Mafia always knows the score. Even Claire Huxtable said this is all a conspiracy. They’re trying to discredit him and, by pulling reruns of The Cosby Show off the air, are doing just that in the most systemic way possible. Now, if PHYLICIA RASHAD is saying this, then it has to be true. Why would she care about losing any residuals from her show being pulled? She was in a 2007 episode of Everybody Hates Chris; money is no object. Stop letting The Man (or woman. or women. Many women of differing races and nothing to really gain as a whole so many years after the fact) jade your opinion of Our Father, Bill Cosby.

Every generation, Black people get a leader that speaks for us and represents us in a way we all universally agree with. For the post-M.L.K. generation, that person has GOT to be Lupe Fiasco. Mr. Fiasco (née Wasalu Muhammed Jaco), for those that don’t really give a shit, is an outspoken rap artist. Here’s why you should care, though: his music consists largely of telling Black America that we are living our lives completely wrong. As accurate as this is, the true genius lies in Mr. Fiasco’s unwillingness to give us logical ways to remedy the problems plaguing our societies. This speaks to true leadership:

“Let’s point out what’s wrong and say it’s wrong! Providing alternatives isn’t what we need concern ourselves with!”

How can you not march with this man?? Furthermore, true leaders abide by one simple idiom: do as I say and not as I do. I don’t know about you, but I would hate to follow any man that actually LIVED the words he spoke. For example, Mr. Fiasco rails against the drug game that has dogged Our communities for years. However, Chilly, the co-founder of Fiasco’s music imprint, 1^st & 15^th Records, was indicted and sent to jail for the very same thing Lupe tells us to eschew. The fact that label- and his very stardom- can be directly attributed to heinous activity that also very well has contributed to even MORE violence in Mr. Fiasco’s hometown of Chicago, Illinois is merely secondary. How can people say he’s “hypocritical”, “disingenuous”, and “sanctimonious”? The man has a right to tell us how to live while shielding his own life at his convenience.

It’s a simple thing, really. Content of character does not lie in one’s actions. Clearly, it is their words that truly show us who they are. To many young Black boys and girls, Oprah Winfrey is that little poor girl from Tennessee by way of Wisconsin by way of Kosciusko, Mississippi that made something of herself. I doubt she even remembers that, and why should she? Becoming a billionaire isn’t about who you were; it’s about appealing to those that can make you more. What’s so elitist about that? Cosby taught generations of boys and girls to support his business interests. Him APPEARING to be a good person is way more lucrative than him actually BEING one. What’s so evil about that? Lupe Fiasco is a pseudo anti-establishment puppet with real outrage at the people he “represents” while maintaining faux-indignation at those that force him to acquiesce to their caricature sketches of Us. But why is that so fake? Seriously people, let’s applaud these titans of Black Excellence! And lastly, don’t forget to smile. All the best to you guys in 2015. For this and all other blessings, I pray to Our Father, Bill Fucking Cosby.

A.J. Armstrong truly believes in Our Father, Bill Cosby. At the risk of jeopardizing his resolution a mere 9 days in, all of these totally logical arguments that don’t stray from the fundamental issue of right and wrong are absolutely ridiculous. But he is also the Creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. ❤ you, Oprah

Obstructed

Little Andre knew there was something more. Rather, he felt there was. He had no idea what caused these thoughts to bounce around in his dreams; his intuition oftentimes caused him to lose sleep. On those nights, he would just stare out into the Southwest Atlanta night, beyond the terrace sprawling below him and past the apartment buildings stretching around him. Every now and again, a young boy would enter his frame of focus, but the image was always a blip of faint light that barely registered. This feeling would cut through all the distracting images flowing into his room and deafened the noises that accompanied them. Andre had it all figured out; he just didn’t know it yet.

Sasha took it all in. Everything competed for her attention and she enjoyed walking amongst the commotion. Her foundation was in this concrete jungle. Life began here and Sasha never figured- nor was she taught- that it could end elsewhere. These few blocks were comforting and provided a pleasant shroud of ignorance.

Sasha loved Andre because he was tall and funny. He liked to talk about things she didn’t quite understand, but she enjoyed the way he said them. They would sit out in the terrace and he would sometimes just sit there with an odd look on his face. Sometimes he would look directly at Sasha and she would look down as if she was searching for an answer to a question. She never really knew what his eyes wanted to know and maybe she should have felt uncomfortable, but she never did. She would just search and, for a few seconds, his gaze silenced the world.

Andre loved Sasha but felt an unexplainable sadness when he thought about her. He loved her spirit and vigor, but wished she could truly take it all in. He never understood how to live in the moment and was taken by Sasha’s ability to do so. She always seemed in such a rush to go nowhere, though. That’s why his favorite memories of her were always in that terrace; it was as close to subdued Sasha would ever seem to be. It was in those moments Andre could steal a few prolonged glances into her eyes. They were beautiful and busy and resigned to never leaving these few blocks. He knew growing apart was inevitable; he just hated that he couldn’t do a thing about it.

One particularly starry night, he sat quietly on a bench staring beyond them while she simply glanced in passing while resting in the only place in the world that mattered. The distance between them was never as abundantly clear than when Andre turned and asked Sasha what she wanted out of life.

“Baby girl, you ever think about what you wanna do when you get grown?”

“What you mean?”

“Just like…what you wanna be when you grow up?”

“…Alive.”

Andre looked directly into those busy eyes, hoping she was only downplaying her plans. It broke his heart to see that she wasn’t. He cast his stare back above the buildings that surrounded them both…

Time went on. They got grown. Andre returned home only to find Little Sasha was gone; her mama said she was ‘with some nigga that be treating her wrong’. It was saddening but not the least bit surprising. That summertime exchange on the bench all those years back had forced him to stop denying what he already knew. All the noises and blips of faint light that had harmlessly danced about Andre’s room swallowed Sasha whole long before she had realized it.

That bench is still in the middle of that terrace and whenever Andre comes to visit, he sits and thinks about Sasha. He also thinks about how those stars seemed to pull him away from his environment, even if only in his mind for a few detached moments. That was usually followed by the tinges of sorrow for those that could never find escape in them and preferred to remain distracted by their realities. However, like Sasha, these thoughts were relegated to the terrace and those buildings. They were left to linger as Andre stood up and walked off into that beautiful unknown.

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

Blackface

I’ll get to Dear White People in a second, but in honor of Halloween, please peep what is quite possibly the greatest Twitter exchange EVER (read from the bottom up):

Okay, back to what I was saying.

Dear White People was supposed to be a brilliantly biting satire that held a mirror up to White America to let them know they could be kind of ugly at times. I really wanted to seek out the first white person in the theater, sit beside him, and cast knowing glances in their direction after each resonating scene. The movie was supposed to end with me standing directly in front of the screen at its conclusion and yelling ‘see?!? Do you get it now?’ with my arms crossed to everyone and no one at…the…same…damn…time. This was supposed to be a film that was ingenious in its creation and flawless in its presentation. Dear White People was supposed to be writer Justin Simien’s Tour de Force, and it is…in the previews. It’s not that Dear White People missed its mark; I’m just not sure what the hell they were even aiming at.

Without giving too much away, the story centers around a group of college students at a majority-white Ivy League school. The focus is on four in particular: Coco, a woman from the South Side of Chicago that eschews Black culture and has a myopic view on what it actually MEANS to be Black; Sam, a rebellious Mulatto woman entrenched in Pro-Black idealism; Troy, a well-to-do son of the school’s Dean of Students; and Lionel, who is just gay. Because gay is the new Black (insert blank stare emoji here). There are obviously white people as well, but we’ll get to them in a few.

Now that you know the characters, let’s look into their internal conflicts. Of course Sam has a white man on the side while dating a Black co-ed to maintain her ‘All Black Everything’ illusion. Of Course Troy has a white girlfriend. And OF COURSE Lionel and his struggle with being homosexual is the primary storyline. Because gay is the new Black and TOTALLY relevant when discussing race relations (insert blank stare emoji here). CoCo just doesn’t want to have anything to do with any of them because…Black. That’s all I gathered. Nobody ever explored what led to these feelings so…yeah. That’s all I got.

In what I thought was an excellent piece of character development by Mr. Simien, it becomes apparent that Sam, the Rebel and Troy, the Company Man, share an inherent understanding of Black culture while being at either extreme in regards to their personalities and interactions. Kudos for that. Even a trashcan gets a steak sometimes, apparently.

Maybe attending a Historically Black University sapped my understanding of on-campus race relations- I admit my base of knowledge is limited here- but each of these four characters has some romantic connection with someone outside of their race. I just wonder if this is realistic and question why every character needs to have this connection, either closeted or public. Addressing inter-race relations is all well and good, but why make it such a conflict with EVERY major character? But again, maybe that’s just me.

As I said before, the primary storyline is about Lionel and his struggle to find an identity and his place on campus. Lionel is gay and his sexual identity supersedes all of the other storylines that I thought the movie was SUPPOSED to be about. This post is neither the time nor the place to speak on why Gay Rights is important; the same is true about a film entitled Dear White People. Because white people can be gay; they can’t…do I really have to expl…man…moving on…

Now let’s get to those white people. I wanted ‘These White Folk Crazy’; instead I got ‘These Black Folk Really Want To Love These White Folks But We Have Trouble Loving Each Other’. Where were the figurative taps on their collective shoulders to remind them that some of the things they do need not be done? What are white moviegoers learning about their behavior? They damn sure learned about OUR behavior. Honestly, the only thing I imagine white people took away from Dear White People is ‘Dear White People…you might not want to wear Blackface on Halloween’. And that’s a shame.

I wanted so much more from Dear White People. I expected edge. I never got my ‘see, White People? See?!?’ moment. The writing suffers from tending to the wrong audience: Black people. It becomes apparent halfway through that Dear White People is for white people in title only. It’s much safer to point out Our collective identity crisis; God forbid tilting the conversation towards the white audience. We can’t risk having THEM in disillusionment and self-contemplation. This was supposed to be Our moment, solely because Our moment finally wouldn’t be about Us. Damn shame Justin and his team weren’t brave enough to fully follow through with it.

F–k ‘Dear White People’. I hope they make a re-boot like they did with ‘The Incredible Hulk’. Matter fact, I’ll do it. Let’s call it ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. A.J. Armstrong is the writer of ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part IV: THOT-ful: A Jump-Off Story

Now, I’m sure most of you have a general idea of what a jump-off is; for those not as educated, Urbandictionary.com defines them as ‘a woman of dubious sexual practices’. They go by many names (rollers, crankers, tip drills, shones, etc.), as do their…”talents”. I refrain from using more derogatory words because they have different meanings for me; if that’s how you choose to identify them, I can’t really do much about that, now can I?

Where was the avenue for these types of women birthed from? Nobody knows the true origin story of jump-offs, nor do we know the primary characters. We just know some dude found some woman to do what he “needed” her to do one day. While I don’t know the exact date, the creation of the modern jump most likely happened something like this:

OCTOBER 1991

Two dudes- we’ll call them Los and William- were lounging in a Washington, D.C.-area strip club in October 1991. Los, dressed in a black Champion hoodie, Karl Kani jeans, and Nike Air Max 180s, was in stark contrast to the well-groomed William who was clad in a grey three-piece suit and blue tie. These were very different men of two different generations, castes, and classes. However, what they did have in common built the foundation of what I speak on today.

“Lemme get a quarter to call my girl,” Los asks over his shoulder, eyes still fixated on the voluptuous Carmel-colored woman on his lap. Two songs and $10 later, he grabs the quarter and saunters to the pay phone. Placing the quarter in, the only thought he could muster in his hazy mind is broad better be woke. After misdialing twice, a ringtone finally becomes audible in the receiver.

“Aye…you woke?”

“…Mmm…”

“Get up, young.”

“For what, nigga?”

“I’m trynna see you.”

“…Bye.”

As he hangs up the phone, he subconsciously scans the dimly lit building for an answer to his sexual tension. Three hours in a strip club tends to do that to people. Unable to find anything of value that wasn’t on the stage or the pole, Los, in an act of desperation and excitement, pulls aside a waitress. “I got a hundred if you trynna do something.”

The indignant look on the high school senior’s face probably would have been an indicator to a more sober and rational Los to stop, but the Crown Royal only urges him on.

“One-fifty, slim…no wait…two hundred. Only cuz I ain’t seen ‘em,” he adds with a sly grin as he points to the frilly lace bra she wore.

Something about money- the prospect of receiving it in particular- really piques a true jumps interest. The waitress, who had been disgusted and offended at Los’ crude courting, was not seriously considering his offer…at first. All of a sudden, she senses an opportunity to bargain with the young man; he doesn’t even look that bad, she rationalizes.

“$300.”

She knew Los was not going to accept; she just wanted a place to begin negotiations. Los’ arched eyebrows of disbelief were a bonus.

“Hell na…$250. That’s all I got. If you would have hit me up sooner, I might’ve thought about three. Your bad, slim.”

“$250?”

“$250.”

“…Mmm…I’m with it. Lemme finish giving these drinks out and I’ll come get you.”

William, noticing the whole exchange take place, shared Los’ dilemma. Not only was his wife sleep, she was in Arkansas. His problem was further compounded by the fact that he was a high-profile public official. Hell, even being at this club at two in the morning was questionable. Being high and tipsy made this situation downright scandalous. There was too much risk for him despite his urges to do exactly what Los had so fearlessly done minutes prior.

FEBRUARY 1996

While on a conference call, William motioned to a young intern to enter his office. As this was the fourth or fifth time, the slightly overweight 22 year-old was well aware of what he desired. Taking her position under his desk and away from view, she began her spectacular and sudden ascent into pop culture infamy. The scene in the club had stuck with him all these years and he reveled in finally being able to wildly live out those whimsical fantasies. The intern’s careful positioning under the desk proved heady, because shortly afterward, the office door slowly creaked open to reveal an aged man with a stack of papers in his arms. “These are urgent and pressing documents you need to address immediately, Mr. President.”

Now you know how jump-offs became popular knowledge, by a man in a strip club and the 42nd President of the United States (sure, some of those facts are debatable but that’s how I remember it). That totally true scene also…er…okay, this is absurd. This was also probably not the best story to share with my little cousin’s third grade class. I’m going to go re-evaluate my life; I’ll see you guys next Thursday for the My Last Post…finale. In the meantime, you can read Part I, Part II, and Part III to occupy your time.

A.J. Armstrong will be finishing his five-part exploration next Thursday. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities…? Right?

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