2:29 AM

I am at my best now. In five hours, I will be at my worst. In seven more hours, I'll be pissed about something stupid or insensitive said by the king of stupid and insensitive. Then off to my hobby that has turned into a career of sorts. He'll probably text me tomorrow; I'll definitely respond. Then back home to the keys to spill my brain on virtual canvas.

Sleep has become the lowest priority. My dreams leave no room for it.

The Marionette, The Rear View, and The Truth About Rims

What does it say about a man who is more confident in his choice of automobile than his choice of wife? I'm being serious...

I love my car. I knew I wanted it since I went to the dealership to get my old car serviced and ended up taking the brochure for the new model home. I saved up for it, kept my old car in pristine condition, so I would get the full value of my trade-in, and even though I bought it when it was no longer a new model, I loved it and all of its features UNCONDITIONALLY. My wife? NOT SO SURE. Don't mean to be honest...but I'm being honest....

I used to date this girl who had a talent for one-liners, and it drove me crazy. I was young then. Not used to hearing the word, "NO." Hell...not used to "MAYBE." And here she comes. Smart-ass mouth to match that smart-ass mind.

I tried to get her number and she asked, "What's the last book you read?"

"I don't read," I replied with the subtle swag that I now realize only the ignorant employ when they don't know what the hell else to say...or actually think the dumb shit they say is a valid comeback (or "retort," as she would say).

"Oh," she replied with a smile, and then with jerk-like precision asked, "Do you know a good car wash?"

I took the bait. Thinking I was going to sound like some sort of expert, I asked, with the same stupid-ass swag, "You got rims or hubcaps? The best place to go to have special attention paid to your rims is..."

"I knew it," she interrupted. "Look, I don't think I'm compatible with the rims-over-reading type. Thanks anyway."

"Rims-over-reading type"? And she walked away with that same damn smile she was wearing when she asked the question. That same smile could turn the biggest street nigga (which I happened to think I was at the time) into the biggest pile of foul-smelling feces on the block. (chuckle) In short...I had to have her.

Eventually, I did. She had me, really. She was herself all the time. Not easily impressed or excitable. Honest to a fault. Intriguing. Genuine. She read "If Beale Street Could Talk" to me after the first time we had sex. The whole book. While cradling me naked in her arms. And I paid attention. And I followed. And I loved her...right then...I knew it. But I couldn't keep up with her. Or maybe I just wasn't willing to leave all the bullshit behind to grow with her. She was making me different, from my speech to my thoughts. I didn't want to grow at all...so I stayed behind...feeling like all I could do is take her rims in for special attention every Saturday. I made myself replaceable, so soon, in true-to-form fashion, I cheated, she caught me, and without a second thought, replaced me.

In fact, her exact words were, "Welcome to mediocrity, Muthafucka," before she closed the door and left me tangled in my sheets with my (then) mistake...my (current) wife.

And all this flooded my mind as I sat at a traffic light, heading home to the life I thought I wanted, with the woman I thought I could live with, in the car I loved unconditionally, staring in the rear view at the woman who always made me think too much. She didn't even notice me missing her.

She had truly cut all ties, evidently. And there I was with all my many strings attached. Still her puppet, waiting to be read to and pulled out of my bullshit with one line.

The Last Bit of the Last Pastrami Sandwich I'll Ever Eat...

It hit me suddenly as I sat folding the clothes (a task I hate) and battling vicious menstrual cramps (a  part of growing older I hate). So I picked up the phone and text him: "I finally forgive you..." His response: "Thank you." I probably will never hear from him again now that he's no longer emotionally bound to me in any way. I'll miss him.

I don't think I'll ever love another the way I loved him. Free. Unguarded. Pure. He was my youthful hope for a normal existence. But it is also important that I continue to be a choosy lover. I hope he finds what he's looking for. I hope I do too.

Metronome (149 words)

When the sonogram was invented, that man had no idea that the string of pearls that excites parents so much would look so beautiful fleshed out, lying bare next to me 30 years later. And I felt smarter and more privileged than he as I stared at her back, wondering how she managed to keep it so beautiful when it was heavily burdened.

Inhale...up. Exhale...down. Inhale...up. Pause... And then...Exhale...down. I pull her close and she doesn't wake up. I fall asleep to her metronome.

I don't have much. I never have...maybe I never will. But if I could come home every night and have her I wouldn't need hip hop. This is what being a Black man is really all about. Not about about the ornaments women aspire to be because of who I think I am. But the man I get to be because of the jewel she is.

Soul Mates (A story in 130 words)

I looked up at him looking down at me. For a second he was familiar, and I remembered when he used to smile up there. A slimmer, younger face. Happier eyes. All the feelings he kept inside all day rushing forward as he leaned down to kiss me full on the lips. Soft. Personal.

Not like that moment when our eyes met, briefly, before he buried his face in my collar bone. Hiding from the face he no longer longed for. Perched atop the body that would do.

Afterwards we slept as far apart as the king-size bed allowed, and he tossed and turned, snored and spoke like he knew he had a captive audience in the visitor's space. I closed my eyes and pretended he remembered I was there.

The Ordinary Hero

You know what? It is me...doing the same thing with you I did with the rest...only different. Acting like a typical victim of 23 chromosomes from a shadow of a man with nothing to give but DNA. Can you smell his absence on me? I know the rest did. My low self-esteem attracted them like pheromones, and they knew whatever minimal expression of affection would surpass what he did. I thought loving them was enough to make them see what duck-and-dodge daddy didn't. I was so full of crap back then.

I didn't love you, though. Not even infatuation, really. You existed in my imagination; your presence was a coincidental manifestation of all the things I missed in them. A gorgeous manifestation...but a reflection of my hurt feelings nonetheless. And I elevated you to the level of "different" while I stayed at "ordinary" in awe of my own thoughts. You were just as I imagined you..."different."

I recently realized that it's people thinking they're different that makes them exactly the same as everyone else. Desperate for identity. Wanting to be separately connected. Looking for a place of social solace on Facebook or trying to enlighten the masses on Twitter. "Different"... isn't.

We all do the same things; the difference lies in our personalities. It's how we interpret our actions. How we redeem ourselves from our mistakes. Good and bad, right and wrong, and all the other bookends we like to claim really only exist in the murky waters between our ears and the cavity between our shoulders that connects our vertical halves. I guess I really liked the way you rationalized your life. How you made sense of your pitfalls...and forged ahead in life with your sense of duty. In my ordinariness, however, I forgot that pattern of thinking is employed by the masses.

It's my fault you began to think so highly of yourself. I saw you as something as bigger than me, and I didn't notice it until you showed me you thought you were bigger than me. Bigger than my run-of-the-mill complexion and body type. Greater than my sense of fashion. Deeper than my thoughts. More descriptive than my words. Well...you are...you are..."different." And you made me see I'm not.

But here's the kicker. My pride lies in my ordinary behavior. I think. I write. I live. I love deeply. I appreciate the beauty in the faults of the commoners. I'm flawed in the best way because I recognize it. I'm selfish. Opinionated. Quick-tempered, at times. I'm competitive. Talkative. Moody. I've seen the height of my anger and the depth of my sadness.  My baggage isn't Dooney & Bourke. The path I travel isn't always tread in Nikes. I'm a mess in a manageable pile. But I'm enough to understand that I don't and never will have all the answers. Nothing special...except I'm me. And that's what I've been waiting for others to notice. I'm not different, as I once thought I wanted to be. I'm ordinary people. Just me.

Leave me lost; don't save me. Let me write my own epic. File me among the ranks of nobodies who came before me, for even they had epiphanies. That's a luxury the special...the different...will never be afforded. They are far too occupied with their "special-ness."

Read My Book!

"She may not be pretty to look at...in this kingdom of the blind." (James Baldwin)

The old addage, "Don't judge a book by it's cover," is more than just an insightful, wise saying that should be applied to more than books. It's an act of courage that forces us to look at ourselves first.

Dust jackets are for those who read  books but need to be attracted by the provocative. That's their purpose - to persuade us to dig deeper because we are, obviously, in need of motivation to go forward without ease of  an"all clear" warning, especially when it comes to reading. Dust jackets are supposed to provoke a certain feeling in a potential reader. Attractive, colorful, and splashed with titles that promise a different side of life, subconsciously enciting excitement. Beneath the cover, however, there's one thing quite clear about all books - they're all books. MOST require effort.

We are visual beings, aren't we? Anything that looks good, from food to the opposite sex, we make up our minds to pursue. Different things are attractive to different people. Variety is, after all, the best part of life, but what about really varied outliers? If we are honest, we'd admit that it's okay for people to be different as long as "different" fits into available categories. Whatever we misunderstand we classify into categories we understand...but don't want to understand.

The emotionally illiterate read seedy titles with sexy pictures, believing all female protagonists want to be the damsel in distress or need their attractiveness or sexiness validated through typical comments like, "Hey, Sexy," "You gotta boyfriend?" and my favorite, "Can I be your friend?" (while committing eye-rape). Most women handle this with social grace - they don't like it, but they brush it off with a smile or kind look. Any outliers earn hasty, negative titles and are dismissed with no further thought. I'm an outlier.

I have accepted that, to the emotionally illiterate, I'm "scary."  "Scary" is a judgement call on my dust jacket, which I honestly don't put much thought into. I'm far too busy writing the book. My title is, "Me...Uncensored." I claim no pseudonyms. I'm no artist, so I don't paint my face or nails. I guess the cover art suffers even further because I don't concentrate on showing my teeth to every person who crosses my path (or showing them just in case someone crosses my path). I think a lot. Perhaps, I think too much, but I have accepted my story for what it is...a damn good piece of literature that isn't for those who don't like a challenging read.

You can't buy me; I'm not for sale. You can't bid on me; I'm not on e-bay item. I'm not cheap; Amazon didn't farm me out to discount sellers. In fact, I'm out of print and only available in hard back.

I guess all this is to say we sometimes put our feelings about ourselves and what makes us comfortable on others, placing a value judgement on the covers of others because we don't really understand what we're looking at. If she doesn't smile, she may be pensive instead of mean. If' he's tatted up, he may be a man of conviction and commitment, inking whatever he holds dearly in his skin to connect him to it. Open the book. Flip through the pages.

Reading is still fundamental. It teaches us about ourselves. It makes us examine the writer. It feeds us. Eat heartily...