Afro-existentialism

Sundays are my bad television days. I mostly watch reality television (if there’s such a thing anymore). I watch everything I tivo-ed from Project Runway, Charm School, I love New York, Flava Flav and now it’s the real Desperate Housewives of Atlanta. I tried watching that Paris Hilton show “BFF” but that dizzy blonde just makes me angry like “no sex in the champagne room.” I hate when people try to become respectable.

I was watching the Desperate Housewives of Atlanta and considering the economy I felt a little jealous. They went on about spending seven thousand dollars on five pair of shoes. The first episode one of the wives bought an Escalade, all cash. It was all I’m so damn fabulous and rich. One of the ladies even donated $15,000 to her church. She said she gave every week. When I was going to church back in the day, they were lucky to even get the lent out of my pocket. My grandmother used to give us money to put in the basket but I usually put it in my pocket. I figured god would understand. Yet, with all their money and stunting, they were all still some unhappy bitches. They fought over the most ridiculous things like a name being forgotten for a party. It meant war to them. I changed the channel. I knew there were real people in the world at real war and could care less if they didn’t get into black Barbie’s party. So I started to think, what was really important to me?

Do you know what is important? It’s such a selfish delusion. When I was five years old, my light blue blanket with the yellow stars was the most important thing to me. I went everywhere with that blanket, no matter how smelly, dirty or unattractive it got. One day it came up missing. I found out years later my mother burned it. When I was thirteen years old getting an ear ring was the most important thing to me. I let a cousin stick a dirty needle through my ear and it got infected. My grandmother still beat my ass before she took me to the hospital. I remember looking in the mirror at my ear, swollen to the size of a lemon, and thinking to myself that I looked cute. When I was fifteen years old, losing my virginity became the most important thing to me. I didn’t want to die a virgin. I didn’t want aliens to come to the earth or a meteor without me ever had gotten my dick sucked or at least felt up. When I finally had the experience with Tanika it was horrible. I felt she was too aggressive. I felt I didn’t like it. I felt she was missing something like a dick. When I was seventeen years old moving away from home was important. My grandfather made me get a job my senior year in high school at the Mega Grocery store. When I graduated high school they offered me the manager position. I was already the janitor, cashier, busboy, buttboy or whatever menial job they threw at me, so I wasn’t surprised they wanted to ruin my life forever. I told my grandfather they offered me the job and he suggested that I didn’t go off to college. He said happiness in life was marrying a good Christian girl, a good job and to go to church every Sunday. I wanted to bitch slap him. I wanted to runaway to New York. I wanted to explore the world. I wanted to get as far away as possible from San Antonio, TX. I did get out of San Antonio. In the big city life was too fast. Too cold. I got caught up in too many things. Sometimes I wish I would’ve taken that Mega Grocery Manager job. I would probably own the damn store by now. Instead, I’m hiding out from my drug dealer because I owe him money.

Importance is what makes us feel safe. The war in Iraq should be important to me, but it isn’t because I don’t feel directly threatened. I should care about a lot of things that’s happening in the world. My sister calls me every other day to complain about the price of gas. I have to explain to her that I live in a metropolitan city with great public transportation. I like walking. It keeps me skinny. I would be as fat as her if I still lived in Texas. She drives to her mailbox. It’s only at the end of the driveway.

So what’s really important, make me feel safe when I lay my head down at night? I would like to say my family, but I can’t stand 99 percent of those bastards. I would like to say my friends, but they are mostly aging alcoholic drag queens that I only see at the bar, or dug addicts, or sex addicts, or born again Christians. I would like to say my job, but I’ve been chronically unemployed since the late 90s. I would like to say love but I can’t seem to make that work in my favor yet. Youth was once important to me but it betrayed me. I got old. As I approached thirty, I had to ask myself what really is important to me because I didn’t feel safe anymore in my life. I asked one of my born again Christian friend what was important to him, and he said having a close relationship with god. I laughed for a week. I remember a couple of years back, the only thing important to him was scoring a bag of Crystal Meth and fucking all weekend. Now he prays to Jesus. I try not to judge. I guess change is important to me. The opportunity to change. When I watch reality television I ask myself will those people every change. It’s sad that the most horrible representation of them is forever embedded in American culture. Can Omarosa stop being a bitch? Can New York ever just be Tiffany? Can Flava Flav stop procreating?

I think we have to allow ourselves to change. Vote Barack Obama, 2008.