This was Atlanta, one of its many beautiful hoods; and, after all, I’m from the city, been here all my life. Here or there in cities all over anyway. I know a thing or two about minding my own business.

i roll by them walking from the apartments on Hollywood Rd., and i think about all this.

Most days, I daydream about getting paid to write 500-1500 words a day for some newspaper or magazine. I wake from these daydreams and remember it’s 2025, I never got a degree, the job market for writers is dogshit, and I’m basing my desire to be a successful writer on nothing but a gut feeling that my stuff isn’t shit.

on January 12,
i had an ultrasound on my ball sack.

strife is a steaming paper plate of white rice, and store-bought rotisserie chicken.

in this one... Los Angeles burns, concessions are too high, i confess i'm bad at basketball, my pops almost drives into the inferno, and i reveal that i prophesied the flames.

Maddow is not Minerva, and I think I’ll kill myself if I find out some of you think Hannity is a hero for truth.

a search for life in the grocery store.

All bets were off. A new era had nutted in our faces without warning.

In this one, the military industrial complex takes over the Atlanta airport; a solider has a seizure causing an emergency landing; I hyperventilate on a bathroom floor; and Charlie Brown smokes a joint with me. All before Christmas. The holiday hard launch.