Lately its seems as if my life is not my own. Had a written my life I would never have placed me in the story that my life appears to be. I dont even seem to live my life anymore. I wonder through it almost aimlessly. Like someone looking for the good parts of a movie, fast forwarding until they get to something intersting.

The strangest part is that my life seems to be a bad movie. Poorly thought out characters, speaking lines of bad english and/or ebonics that no real person would ever utter.

At thirty four years old I have nothing. I just barely own a car. I dont have a job that the IRS knows about. Even if they did know I dont have kids I can claim. Hell, when I return from work I dont even know if I have a place to live day to day. I control nothing. I drift about my life like a jellyfish caught up in a wave. I wonder if I should have made that metafor a bit more urban.

I never planned for my life to turn out this way. I always imagined by this time in my life I would have 2.3 kids (never did figure out what they did with the rest of that last kid), big ass house, phat car, my kids would talk different(Father tell us what it was like when we were niggers father?). Ironically enough, I am that nigger my child was talking about.

I always see myself getting myself out of my situation. But thats the movie part. I can control the direction, the lighting, the scenery, and to a certain point everything seems real. But then, like in any good bootleg movie, somebodys big ass head pops in front of the screen and fucks up the shot. Letting me know that I danced a little too close to reality. I mean sure its okay that I wish to do better, as long as I dont actually do it.

Today I gave away a truck. Although I didnt have it long, I really wanted this truck. It was nothing special, but in my present medical condition I needed it a lot more than the Prelude that sits outside in the driveway. (who am I fooling? I dont have a driveway. I have one space designated to me from the housing authority that doesnt know I live here) So why do I have a Prelude? One that hurts me when I try to get in and out of it. Because my friend, who has no license, can drive it to get to work. Sounds stupid because it is. Ive always been that guy that doesnt realize the hand that you try to pull up, is also the hand that keeps you down.

Shhhhhhhh!

Somethin wrong with your lips bitch?

No.

Something gonna be wrong wit em if you keep making that fucking noise.

Im so glad I never pay full price for these... This is my life.

Fisk: OUT.

Sorry for my unexplained absence. I started another job. The hours are hectic. I go in for 9:30 and get out when we're finished. Lately, finished means about an 11 hour day.

I've got lots to share, as soon as I get acclimated to my new schedule I'll begin writing again.

I'd like to thank The Princess of the Starz, and Candy Caine 4 looking out for me on the Messenger front.

Fisk: out.

That's how long it's been since I've seen my daughter. No mail. No pictures. No phone calls. No visits.

Sometimes I forget I even have a daughter. It hurts like a son of a bitch. She was my first born. We had a bond that was stronger than any I had ever felt before. I would truly give anything I had to to make sure she was okay. If that meant my life, so be it. Now I can barely remember when her birthday is.

Everytime I see a little Asian girl, I wonder if that's what my Jasmine looks like. It kills me that she could probably walk into a room I was in and I wouldn't know it. I know nothing about her. I wonder what her favorite movies or places to go are. I do remember she had an annoying love of the color pink. But then again, what girl of nine doesn't?

More than anything, distance keeps us apart. She lives in NightBug City. I live 620 miles away. When I can reach her mother, she always says, 'sure you can see her, all you have to do is drive down here.' I called her bluff a few times to find it wasn't a bluff at all. I had all access. It was great. Then she moved. Her phone was shut off. She got married. We lost contact.

The ironic part is that all of her family lives here where I do. Uncles, grandparents, cousins, everyone. My daughter is all alone down there with only her mother and her mother's children. Why they don't move back here I don't know. I've heard that she's since been divorced so there's no problem there. I wish I could just find a number or something to reach her with.

I've 'adopted' a few pseudo daughters that I care deeply about. I realize that they aren't replacements for Jasmine, but it helps. They seem to need a Daddy. I need to be a Daddy. It's good for all involved. But it's not what I want. I want MY daughter.

Mothers: Realize this. Your feelings towards your child's father doesn't have to be and probably isn't your child's feelings. If they truly want to see their child and don't have any reasons why they shouldn't, let them. You may be doing your child a huge disservice. Think about it.

Fathers: Don't give up.

Fisk: OUT

I've been dying for 34 years. It's a slow process. Every year I celebrate how many years I've been dying. I never thought I'd make it this far.

Statistically I should've been 21 by the time I got it right. Knowing that I've beat the odds doesnt make me feel any better. Instead of dying by some random act of violence, I am aware of the fact that I'll be aware of what I die from. That death seems harder to me. I would much rather prefer the clinical unfeeling anonimity of a bullet, than that of a disease that has a name, that we haven't managed to cure yet.

I think this is why babies sleep so much. Even in their infantile minds, they know the day that they are born is also the day that they begin to die. Being that dying can be a long process, you need lots of sleep to prepare for it. When we're older and more comfortable with the idea of death, we tend to sleep less. Why is this?

I think man wants to live forever. I don't mean some magical fountain of youth type of eternity. I think we live on in our children. How else is it that my son looks so much like me? If not for the fadedness of the pictures you could replace me with him and no one would know the difference.

The only thing that bothers me is that I probably wont know when I die. I'm probably going to be one of the lucky ones who dies in his sleep, not screaming like the rest of the people in the car. I hear that I stop breathing several times a night. I used to wake up when this happened, now my body is so used to it I no longer do so. I guess theres worse ways to die. Still I would prefer to be awake when it happens so that I might embrace it. To quote some old dead white guy "I will not go gently into that good night."

I dont write this to elicit any particular response. As usual I'm merely writing what is on my mind. I've noticed that when I write something serious it seems to get glossed over. In the year and change that I've been posting things here it seems that my audience would think that I'm a baffoon. Think what you will but this is me. I'm not playing the ratings game or the popularity games anymore. To quote Shrek "I've got layers, like an onion." This is but one of them. For those of you that prefer the baffoon, hiccup a diccup till it make you siccup!

i don't look at myself in the mirror because i'm a narcissist,
i simply like to watch myself exist.
now i'm in a fog and mist,
now my reflection is anonymous.
ponder this...

i've seen a reflection of my soul in the store window.
caught in limbo 'cause i was dressed all in timbo's.
having vivid fantasies of playing polo with ralph lauren on a tommy hill,
and my paper-thin spirit was still grieving from the versace kill
in florida. opened the door to the store and i walked through the corridor,
to see they had a blow out sale on nautica.
i've always been a lord of the button down flies,
and being they were half-priced, i just passed 'em on by, looking for levis.

but guess, what? all my favorite clothing lines and hip designs,
were being liquidized and it made me sick to my eyes.
i don't understand, when i had no ends, the price was quick to rise.
i'd buy a pair of "trends" even if they didn't fit my size.
purchase a surplus of "fads" from merchants whose ads
made these cheap ass fabrics that were so worthless and sad
just look priceless. they used unethical devices
to attack my sense of self-worth during my prepubescent crisis.
it fed into my insecurities, so instead of being righteous,
i want everyone to see me like this. "son, it's all about who looks the nicest."

ice is falling off my rolie onto my body, "shoot!
i hope to hell it doesn't melt and ruin my armani suit."
while i'm sweatin' this, some kid who doesn't got any loot
is buying my necklace along with my same exact khakis and army boots.
"what?! this is blasphemous!"
since adidas tried changing its logo, there ain't been nothing as wack as this.
it's probably a stunt being pulled by animal rights activists,
because of all that third world country garbage, but i'm a pacifist.
so while these monkeys sweat over my name brands that exchange hands
from enslaved lands, i wonder if i'm the same man
without reward for what i bought but can't still afford.
this is the type of self-realization that might have killed the lord.
i didn't mind working for free as a walking billboard,
but now i want my money back, as the ice spilled and poured
onto the floor. i did see a distorted reflection of my nike hat,
now i don't know how others might react.
for me it was an unsightly act that helped me get my psyche back.
i stood 5 feet back, afraid that it might strike me like "shaclack clack!"
you think i'm kidding? think it's no big thing?
what i seen made my heart hurt, stomach turn, throat burn, teeth cringe, spine tingle, and ribs sting.
i noticed that the swoosh symbol was nothing but a whip in mid-swing.

i don't look at myself in the mirror because i'm a narcissist,
i simply like to watch myself exist.
now i'm in a fog and mist,
now my reflection is anonymous.