I’m lazy as hell.
And even though I make elaborate plans at the start of each day, I usually finish each evening having barely gotten by.
Don’t work enough, don’t read enough, don’t write enough.
And even though I recognize a good feeling retuning, of how I’m liking more and more of what I read, as opposed to the “everything sucks” mode I was in that was way more reflective of my opinion of myself, I’m still not putting away the number of books, magazines, articles and blogs I should be if I’m really gonna be as good as I need to be; as good as I feel that I am.
Afraid probably that I really do suck or worse, that I really am my own worst enemy. That self-sabotage is my greatest foe and that everything I’ve ever wanted has been right in front of me, there for the taking all along but that I’ve deliberately looked everywhere else for it.
It’s all my fault and it’s never my fault.
And in my God-like capacity to accept blame for shit towards which I am oblivious, yet reject responsibility for shit I know all about, I simultaneously aspire without effort and work without goal.
I need tomorrow.
Like it’s promised. Like it’ll change or I’ll change with or because of it. No more coffee, I swear, no more red meat, no more porn, I’ll get back to working on that script, I’ll get another job at night, I’ll holla at that girl, I’ll see the fam, everything will be good, everything must stay static, today: until tomorrow.
I have no confidence and I’m arrogant.
And I’m so goddamn good, so goddamn fly; dead right about everything, always sure, never off. I know those numbers I’ve seen that movie I’ve read that book. Success means nothing and money means nothing because I have neither. If they meant anything, I’d have both.
And Lord knows what I consider to be my platform. WTF can I really say against a Kanye West or a LeBron James or just a nigga with a wife and family that’s held the same job for more than three straight years?
I feel the presence of a God that I don’t believe in.
All religion is ridiculous, but in the intellectual dead-end that is whether there is or isn’t, I pray with gratitude and am thankful nonetheless.
I’m awash in absurdity.
I’d be the first to shout that #BlackLivesMatter but the last to denounce a Black murderer. I racked my brain looking for moral justification for that mad dog Ismaaiyl Brinsley and have always treated Colin Ferguson‘s story as a joke.
I even act like if I turn a blind eye to Blacks murdering other Blacks, the phenomenon will simply stop.
I’m a racist.
And it’s not that I hate white people or even that I dislike them or that I think that Black people are inherently superior to them, it’s just that in my constant expectation encountering their racism, I’m defensive, which is racist, not usually giving them a chance.
A truly noble spirit would be freshly shocked with each new racist encounter just like a truly loving spirit would fall completely and fully into each new love.
But I don’t have one of those either.
So I guess that’s what’s wrong with this Black person.