Let's Get Ready To Ramble...

Settled comfortably in front of a Dell Optiplex, standing at a whopping 5 feet tall, weighing in at an astonishing 100 pounds with a wicked keystroke, we have: MALA.
In front of god knows what, we have: you.
Gird your loins.

I've been gone for a bit so this may prove to be hellishly long. I don't know why I took a break, other than I needed one. It's been a trying time, even now as I attempt to corral my thoughts while a 6 foot 4 inch bruiser snores like a logger on my mother's couch and Captain Kirk delivers his lines with those awkward pauses he's known for, it' s still not all gum drops and lollipops. I wonder what's really what.

Last night while chatting with Ed, I told what is quite possibly the most horrendous lie that has ever had the misfortune to leave my lips. I said "fuck writing" (and somewhere in the cosmos a star died). I had spent most of yesterday in heated argument with my mother. You know, the kind of debate where one of the parental units insists on telling you exactly what you should be doing with your life. Writing is not a true occupation to my mother. She went on to relate to me, ad fricken nauseum, how long it takes for a writer to "make it" and point out that a lot of people only "make it" post-humously. She insists that I have neither the time nor the luxury of depending on words to take care of me. She had me sold for a moment. I thought that she may just be right, I may just need to get a nice little job and make a nice little living so that I can have a nice little life. Then I remembered that there is very little nice about me... at least in the sense of being satisfied with anything nice or little. This grievous discussion went on for hours with tiny barbs being thrown, to the point that I wished I had the heart to utter the words "would you please, in the name of all that's holy, shut the FUCK UP." However, my dearest readers, although I am stout of heart, I am, by far, not foolish of brain. I would never dare attempt such a statement because to be blunt, moms has me by a good 100 or so pounds and would make short work of beating the yellow off my ass (plus I've seen her fight, she's nice with hers). So I held my tongue and allowed her to browbeat me mercilessly. Just when I was about to fold like a wet blanket I realized, I am never happier than when I am writing. It doesn't matter what I am writing, as long as words flow from my mind. Like most, I am my own worst critic and harsh like sandpaper when it comes to judging my work but still writing makes me happy.
Damn a nice little life as it would make me miserable. I finally smiled and said "well I guess I'll just be broke then" and she harrumphed away mumbling something about a hard head. I couldn't help but sling a bit of sass. I may have a hard head but having a nice soft ass is so very often WORTH IT.

Onwards.

I don't know exactly where to begin with times now past so I'll just throw in a few tidbits that have stuck over the last week or so. Roughstars rocked R&R this past Tuesday night. It was a bit of a farce since Forrest elected to have them go on at some ungodly hour of the morning when most of the patrons had moved on to spot number 2. It was a major disservice to the band. Major. I also feel like they were not meant to play in the line up as it were since these guys bring a rough, rapid UK rock sound to a laid back r&b type night. They kicked what little ass was left in the spot and I look forward to seeing them perform in a place more suited to the vibe that they wear like a second skin. Lots of love from Mikel and sharing a joke over a glass of house wine with Tjade is nothing to sneeze at either. Bazaar Royale busted into an impromptu performance of "I Know Pain" that blew minds with T-Bone, drumming madman of Game Rebellion, sitting in. As always it was a pleasure to see a host of people that I know (which made me realize sheeze, I know alotta damn folks) and shit talking with muMs into the wee hours about nothing was par for the course.

Thursday I was a woman on a mission. There were no shows a popping but I fully intended to get into some, um, trouble. Which leads me to this whole weird thing about sexuality. It's no crime but it is a trifle wearisome and confusing. There are some that come from the school of dowhatchalike and there are others that swear you can't turn a ho into a housewife. If you choose either school of thought you'll either end up a ho or a virgin until death. So what does one do in this insane predicament? Do you wait around, holding on to your precious jewel spending night after night freezing in the shower or do you let it all hang out and take a few trips around the block? I don't know. I've still not the answer to that question. I have found no happy medium, rather only a tricky, sticky middle road that more often than not, leaves me either squashed like a grape or hornier than Bambi. I don't have the temperament to fling it around willy nilly nor do I have the moral fortitude to not take a tumble when I choose. I've found that I tend to have serial sex: choosing one partner for whatever reason until I am tired/aggravated/bored out of it (as was the case with my last lover) or forced to move on (as was the case with my lover of yore). It generally works out for the most part as long as I tether my feelings, which I have become most adroit at since having my hat handed to me once too often by the same person. Short of my ego being bruised (which prompts me to act in a most unladylike fashion) I really just don't give a fuck. I mean honestly. I don't.
But still it's weird. Unbeknowst to most, I am one of the most piss-poor sensitive sods out there. I mean it. Left to my own devices, I cry while watching movies, the news or reading sad tales because I actually empathize with the story as a whole. Shit, I can't watch anything alone without weeping like a wimp. Then again, I'd be a heartless cad if my brother were killed and I shed not a tear.
This really gets me in deeeeeeep shit when it comes to relationships and such. If I actually like someone, the level of caring that goes into dealng with them is nothing short of harrowing. I care. I worry about their well being, their mental state, their happiness, their life. I internalize their emotions and day to day activities as if they are my own. I've had that come to naught or on the flip side, eat up precious moments of my life (which turned from minutes into hours into days into years which then flew the fuck by) way to often. I do not intend to be a housewife. I will not be satisfied at home, cordoned off from the world by a white picket fence, aproned, with a baking sheet weighted down by gingersnaps. I also do not think I would be happy without love and companionship either. However, I have come to the realization that my few friends are dear and true. The love I receive is unfettered and deep. Therefore I'm not truly lacking anything and sex is a thing given or taken as I see fit. And ONLY as I see fit.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Trouble. Minus the consequences and repercussions n shit. If your linguistic dexterity is deft enough, you can make it rhyme with Mala. Ah to be me! I got me a hell of a load of trouble. Whew. I stopped by Snitch for the Fabulaun promoted party (where Jaysumma was summarily absent) and was appalled. What had once been a particularly rocking party had dwindled down to a few regulars sitting around looking hopelessly bored. Add one flat-assed go-go dancer and some other fully dressed broad making a stage of the booth-back and the sum was 1 Mala looking somewhat disgusted. Might I add, the dj should have been shot. Long ago.
ACCIO TRENCH COAT, I is ready to go. I hugged Kelsey, who popped up just as I was about to exit, door left and made my way down those steep, steep stairs in my high, high boots. Trouble began with me being lifted a good 4 feet in the air and ended with a hangover the size of Texas.
Good Times.

Friday night was a lu-lu. I made it to Trash bar in Willies-burg just in time for Apollo Heights. I don't even know what to say. They are so dope they defy words so I won't do them a disservice by trying to describe the sound. Then my babies went on. If you motherfuckers ain't up on Pillow Theory, y'all just don't know. They've got some shit for your collective asses. I am so very, very proud to know them and to be here at the beginning of what promises to be a hellafied musical rout. Sleepers will awaken eventually and what a thing that will be. My babies RIPPED THAT SHIT. Athough the monitor gave some feedback and the mic went out a few times, it was a joy to behold. I take intense pleasure in listening to their now layered sound sans the dramatic bullshit that once plagued their shows. I can't wait for the next one... and I don't have to: December 16th @ Snitch, write that down in your datebook.

I was cutting out to go to party number 2 when I had to avert disaster. Negro had come downtown with his boys and had called me some insane amount of times. In full panic mode he finally reached me and the spanish expletives blistered my ears for most of the cab ride to meet him. I got to 4th street, dealt with the cussing and pocketed a few dollars with promises that I would call when I got back to the Heights, then exited, cab right.
I headed over to Dirty Disco and was pleasantly surprised. The party was jumping, dual floors allowing for choice in music, both djs doing their respective duties. I chilled there for a while before heading to spot number 3 with Justina.
We arrived at the venue and the door girl tried to give us shit. After some swift negotiations we went inside and I wanted to exit immediately if for no other reason than to trip the doorwhore. How can you give people a hard time when the damn spot is EMPTY? Damn you woman! I had a drink, looked around, danced a little then thought to myself "this shit is whack as all get out, I'm gone."
I hit my boy Stormin' who was headed for breakfast and we yapped over a meal at Coffe Shop (I made those eggs disafrickenppear). Kels called to berate me a bit because he erroneously believed that I was wrapping myself up with someone who is dumber than a barrel of bull's nuts. I reassured him that this was not at all, by any means, the case (because nowadays I find it singularly difficult to give a fuck about fools) and after putting his mind at ease, tucked into a plate of salty bacon. Pork, the other, other meat.
Then it was back to the Heights where I threatened Negro, and I do mean it: I ever catch those gargantuan Timbs on my bed again, there's gonna be a fucking misunderstanding.
Enter Morpheous.

Saturday I spent looking a boatload of papers that, if piled one atop another, would probably be taller than me. I mentioned before in another short piece (entitled Confessions of an Autodidact: Part 1) that according to my transcripts, in two years between 2 schools and a veritable shitload of absences, I pulled down a 3.15 gpa (damn that second year French and required Orientation, as it had been a 3.45). I had toyed with the idea of going back to school since 2 more years would net me a degree of some sort. The toying is over, I'm going back. If nothing else, my mother will be quite pleased with that piece of paper they give you at the end of it all, since to her it would validate my intelligence. Ah parents, where would we be without them? Underneath the aforementioned transcripts and A papers was a rediculous amount of stories, most incomplete, all worthy of some kind of attention. It was frustrating to realize just how many ideas have made it out and ended up stagnant in some drab olive hanging folder. My complaint of this fact to my mother is what lead to the neverending discussion about what I shall be in this life. I don't know exactly what I am going to be. I only know who I am and that my ideas merit my attention. Whatever will come of it, at least they will not wither and die an ignoble death from either knocking around in my already too full brain or yellowing and curling in a file cabinet. I will write because I can.
Onwards.
That night Jerrica, Chubbs, Daddy and I drank down Coogans while talking mucho shit. After the boozing, I stopped at Mickey D's (someone PLEASE put me out of my effin' misery. Please? Thanks.) and went home to find a serious session of rummy going on complete with laughter, shouting and plastic cups of Brugal. Ah the Heights... ya gotta love it.

Sunday leads us back around to the top of this post and the end of this current foray into the mind and madness of Mala. As usual, I wrote this because I damned well felt like it. Hopefully Ed will forgive my awful mistruth, muMs will read what I sent him, Kels will understand that it's hard for me to take something stupid seriously, Negro will stop snoring to wake the dead and I'll be able to coax one more cup of coffee out of the pot. I'll try not to stay away for too long should I decide to absent myself yet again, the "where are you" emails tanned my hide.

Onwards.

- M, out...