Every so often, I take some time to avoid shitting on others and throwback to infant mode and shit on myself. That just sounds kinda nasty, when you visualize it. Gross. Anyways, sometimes the best way to put things into perspective, in regards to yourself, is to self-deprecate. The ideology of self-deprecation is to essentially be excessively modest and/or belittle yourself. Why, you might ask? Because as much as I’ve built myself up over the years, built my brand, etc., I still stumble over being a bit humble, a bit modest.
Where are my issues? Well, lemme begin here:
I’m overly confident, which leads people to believe that I’m cocky, a dickhead, obnoxious, ignorant, self-centered, solipsistic (as one reader eloquently stated), so on and so forth. I’m guilty of a lotta that shit. I hold myself in a higher regard than most do, because if it wasn’t for me being the way I am, I wouldn’t be where I’m at right now.
I talk a lotta shit. Nowadays, I find my targets easier because I know what I’m looking to comment on. Lemme be my own subject – I’m materialistic. I put an overwhelming emphasis on presentation and seem to lack the ability to be refined in most social settings. I judge people based on what they wear because I see clothing and appearance as an extension of self. If I don’t personally fuck with what you do, or if it’s not an aesthetic that I find pleasing, you’ll probably end up in the crosshairs. Me? I’m a grown man that wears an excessive amount of Polo, colognes, closet fulla Nikes and if you don’t follow suit, I tend to use you as a launching pad for my own ignorance. It is what it is, but I’m a work in progress.
I have a tough time holding my liquor. Am I a lightweight? Nah, my friends. But I gulp liquor when I should sip; I drink hard liquor after years of conversing with the Porcelain God, who I’ve sworn to that I won’t continue my blacked out, vomitous path of life. How’s that going for me, you ask? Not particularly well, thanks. I have my ups and downs with it, since I go weeks upon weeks without a sip. When I inevitably do end up hitting the bottle again, I drink like a Kenyan pounds water after the Marathon. I’m shameless and borderline remorseless.
I tend to distance myself when I get close to certain people, for fear they’ll inevitably end up splitting off from me once they realize that I’m a complete fucking nutcase. But those that still kick it with me once they’ve come to that realization? I consider those folks blood because they see as much ridiculous, thoughtless, and weird shit that I get into, I mostly do it for the experience, for the laughs, for the conversation that’ll ensue thereafter. One man’s trash is another’s treasure. Those who treasure me are hoarders.
I’m an unrelenting critic – mainly of myself, however, this blog provides more than enough space, thought, and reflection that’ll allow me to release hundreds (if not thousands) of words on a daily basis. There aren’t many “taboo” subjects that I haven’t touched on – relationships; fake tits; fashion fuck-ups; liquor/weed; ether and perspective; sneakers; crime; writing for a local newspaper. All of these things, coupled with the fact that I spent close to two years as a club-promoting, Ciroc/Goose/Patron/Bacardi-swilling, casually overdressed, never understated business owner, I’m as comfortable saying “hi” as I am telling you to go fuck yourself. Why? Because that’s the parity of being me – I can be sugar sweet or sour as your first time in bed with your first.
Love me or hate me, I don’t like to change. Unfortunate for me, but exactly where I wanna be. I’m sarcastic, I’m loud, I’m brash, I’m stylish, I’m what mothers warn their daughters to stay away from. I’m what fathers generally don’t want their sons to be. I’m the dude grandparents (or anyone over 65) can’t figure out. What’s more than that, when you feel you’ve figured me out, I’m off my job and I’m slipping. I’m a fresh pair of Js amongst boxes of Payless sneakers. There’s 700 words – take em with a grain of salt, if I haven’t raised your blood pressure enough.