I’m always afraid to show people my writing. My family doesn’t necessarily know about the site. Not my mother or sister anyway. They’ll find out one day. But its a shame that the thing that means the most to me in the world is the one thing I hide from them. I’m not sure if its from embarrassment or shame: I sure cuss a lot, and my sister is both judgmental and an English major.  I have a feeling she would never grant my writing any literary merit, especially with all the typos. At the end of the day though, I don’t give a fuck what they think. Who I’m most concerned with is myself. I fear my apprehension stems from my own doubt. I know I’m going into this blindly, but my passion has been, and always will be, fiercely conspicuous. I don’t know when exactly I became a “writer”. I’m not even quite sure many would label me as such. I don’t make any profit off my written genius, but does that make it any less genius? I sit here — a cat on my lap, Chanel on my fingertips –happy as I have ever been.  Do you like what you do? was all it took to make the faucets leak. Yes, I do. I love it actually. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’ve never been very religious because everything I learned told me I was a heathen. I felt like everything I’ve ever loved was wrong. It was as if my heart were leading me in the wrong direction, but I’m far too intelligent to believe that. I knew that there was some reason I kept fuckin up. I never meant to. I never maliciously stayed out all night so that my mother would worry where I was. I stayed out all night because you never know what you’re missing out on. My best memories are of the nights I turned my  phone to silent as “Mom Dukes” lit up on the screen. 

            I wasn’t a good kid, but I was one of the best. My A’s gave me excuse enough (I thought) to run my own life. I felt my work was done. I was intelligent. I got my shit done. I just liked to party a little. A… umm… lottle, actually. “Clubbin”started at 15 when I was supposedly at the movies. Instead I was center-stage shakin my ass and dancing my pain away. I was a good kid, though. All I wanted was my right-hand by my side –the white girl who could, with no hesitation, make your man leave you. Willingly. My teenage years were fantastic . Filled with sex, drugs and poetry.  I knew everything else, but these were my vices. By day, I studied Newton’s theorems and was fascinated that I understood how to make planes fly. By night, I was the only sober person at the E.P. after after parties –but I had just as much fun at the inebriated. I was high off life.Throughout it all, I was able to maintain. While I veered off the path when I felt it most entertaining, I kept my head in the books. My goals were always in the forefront. It wasn’t easy, though –balancing cool kid with gifted. I didn’t want to be different from anyone, but I never wanted to be like them. Unfortunately, you can see exactly what a kid’s going to be from the early stages. Ambition is a boastful trait. It’s difficult to hide. From the beginning, you can see who has it and who doesn’t, I’m afraid to say. If you think you’re going to be somebody, you will be. If you get stuck focused on how the world is built to hold you down, well… your own demons are the most difficult to vanquish.  
         I want to be the boss. I’m tired of taking orders from people. I tired of having to bend under the weight of requests. I’m tired of asking if it’s okay for me to take days off. I’m tired of people asking me nicely to do things they can do themselves. I’m tired of being a good enough worker to complete my outlined tasks and them some. I’m tired of being so above average people don’t know what to do with me. I’m simply not fit for a mediocre lifestyle. My desire in insatiable. My goals are claustrophobic. I don’t know where else to go but up because I’ve determined that’s the only place I’ll find room to breathe. It’s scary shit; wanting wealth. Because that means that money matters. Success is essential. Failure is taboo. And all these things make you a bad person, according to greater society. All of these things make me self-centered and inconsiderate. You don’t have enough time for people. You don’t give back enough. It’s never enough for them. And it’s never enough for you either. When do you stop? When does the ambitious flame burn out? For some, it’s far too early. For others, it seems like never. I want to be just like them. 
        They say the magazine is dead. & I’m not quite sure people read anymore. not to mention, people only seem to like to grant genius to people whom them can’t understand. Sometimes I wonder if I should speak to you in a vocabulary fit to throw you off. Would you find greater satisfaction in having to read my blog with a dictionary open? Sometimes I wonder if you comprehend that when you register what I’ve said, I’ve satisfied my intentions. I’ve done what the fuck I came to do: Speak with you. Sometimes to you, but never at you. So in plain English, I have shit to say. I want to make sure you understand me. Nonetheless, I’ve embarked on my “pointless” journey. Simply because, in reality, this is what I want to do. I love my 9-to-7, don’t get me wrong (and cut that check) but if I could make life one big ass weekend, I’d do it. If I could wake up in the morning to a joint and a mimosa, I’d be in. I’m maybe even throw pot butter in my omlette. Why not? I’d just… chill out. And write. And write. And write. But I’m a firm believer in that if you want to be something, you’ve got to start acting like it. If you don’t, how will you know how to behave when the time comes? Like my man DMX said (lol @ DMX, just cuz) in “Come Back in One Piece,  “If it’s out there, I want it. All at one time. So when it’s my time, I’ve done it.” So I’m going to stop talking about it, and give it to you. All of it. I’m not sure how much “better” this site is than the others out there, but I that’s only because “infinitely better” can’t be described with a solitary figure. Just this: ∞.  So, mathematically speaking:
JWWWD.com > (Other sites)(∞) 
That was a little cocky. My apologies. (They ain’t never gonna stop me.) At the very least, this shit makes me happy. Whether it brings me money and fame or not. I don’t know how people do it. How they devote themselves to something they don’t even like. How can you dedicate hours of your life… your life.. to something you don’t absolutely love? It seems to me that we put too little value on our time. You’re worth more. You deserve more. All the things you said you wanted, you should have. 

      Everyone  should have everything in the perfect world, that is. Yet, we know that imperfection is a static characteristic of daily life. You’re not going to be given everything you want. In a flash, someone else might beat you to the draw. It only takes one second to be late. You might miss out. With that said, why wouldn’t you go out and try to get it all? Would you simply submit to the ways of the world and accept that nothing is going to be given to you? TAKE IT. All this shit is out here for the taking, you’ve just got to find a way to get it all. And not all the ways are pretty. Which way you choose to get there is simply a matter of the methods available to you.  Choose wisely, as I’ve done so in choosing mine. Remember, the whole world is in the race. There are no friends in war. 
        My fear has been inhibiting me. Today, I let that go. Today, I finally, fully believe in me. So when I disappear for days, and I don’t pick up the phone, and I don’t respond to texts, and I miss your birthday on Facebook, I truly do apologize: I’m finishing my breakfast. I don’t quite have the time to manage other’s lives. i’m too much person by myself. Again, I’m sorry. I started this shit a long time ago back when I was an covetous activist poet fighting invisible foes with wizard-like word play simply to flex y mental dexterity. But I have no regrets,  I won all of my battles.

 I’ve lived to tell the tale.  Stay tuned.

-M/C