Peacockish

Hi.

Ok, y'all, I'm not completely crazy. I know you guys read that blog I put up the other day and were like "DAMN, this nigga has seriously lost his mind", but really- I was just having a moment and I needed to vent. So don't harp on it. I don't need referrals to all your personal therapists or names of any institutions that can help me "cope" with whatever it is I'm going through. I'll be alright, I swettagod.

Now, with that out of the way…

It's just another lazy Wednesday afternoon with me sitting in front of the computer having absolutely nothing constructive to do. Job Search 2008 has hit a snag, so in the meantime I'm working on me. Physically, emotionally and spiritually. Ok, maybe not so much spiritually as I should, but the rest of that shit is on a roll. My workout is on some insanity deal. I've gained all of the weight back I lost during PARTYPHASE 07 (thanks Charlie) plus a little bit. And it's muscle, not fat. I don't do fat. I don't even have any fat people in my family on either side. Blessings. Yesterday I actually had my flexed bicep measured at 14.5 inches and I've never before been the kind of person who would give a rat's ass about that sort of thing. Who the hell am I? I've found myself becoming more and more peacockish (haha) every day. Mirrors don't escape my gaze like they used to. I used to actually avoid those mother fuckers at all costs deeming them catalysts for unnecessary mood swings. I'm starting to worry about my face too. Like a girl would. I'm seriously thinking about investing in this Obagi treatment system thing. It's on some dermatologist-prescribed type shit and seeing as I don't have a regular job right now I don't have the insurance that would cover it. Insurance probably wouldn't cover that anyway since it's all cosmetic, vain and gratuitous. It's supposed to be some daily treatment/scrub thing that more or less melts your face off until it's red and burning leaving you with the taught, supple and blemish-free complexion of an 8 year old. Seeing it written out though, I'm not sure I want all that. I mean, I don't think that I'm that metro yet and probably never will be.

Let's just pretend that the second half of that whole paragraph didn't just happen. I'm kind of embarrassed about it now.

I guess part of the reason that I'm like that now is because I'm in the entertainment industry (kind of). Being one of the Rally Cats for the Charlotte Bobcats affords me the annoying privilege of being recognized by random people out in public. Do you know what it's like, walking through the grocery store and getting pointed at by people whispering to their friends "I think that's that Bobcats guy, you know, the one who does all the flips!". It's unnerving. I don't like people I've never met spotting me like that. What's worse is when they recognize me on a day that I probably shouldn't have been allowed to leave the house looking how I look. When I don't feel that I'm on top of my game, I will straight up lie when people ask "Are you that guy who—" "Ooh, no, sorry. That's not me. I know who you're talking about though." Fresh face to the world man, fresh face to the world.

So I'm gonna wrap this up because I'm waiting on the plumber to come back so he can fix my tub. It's way past annoying now. Whenever I take a shower, by the end of it I'm shin-deep in a cesspool of body dirt, shavings and soap scum. It is so nasty I can't get over it. I have to be on point too because I need just enough time to hide Crucis (The dog we're not supposed to have) just in case the plumber is in actuality a spy for our land lady, Renata Von Flueggenheim (That's not her real last name, but she is German). And you know what, that nigga probably was a spy because he said he was going to be back in about 15 minutes over an hour ago.

Oh well, my name isn't on this lease so I could care less.