Niggas Ain't Perfect

"Niggas Ain't Perfect."
-Big Black Af, Bamboozled

Moya knows what's up. I vented to her over the net this morning. I complained about my condition, the human condition, about how friends fail us, family dissapoints us, foes fuck us over. As much as I wanted to indict the cruel world and feel sorry for my self, I remember the wise words of one of my dearest chosen kin, L, "We attract what we are" and then I feel bad all over again. I want to point my finger at the cold cold world but then 4 fingers stare right back at me, emery board eschewing, ragged and ready to do some damage. I wish I could complain without contextualization, self-reflection, thought. I think it would do me some good. It seems like even when I want to me mad at other folk I'm mad at myself for absolving control over my emotions and getting mad in the first place. Oh what a tangled web I weave and walk through, sticking to my face, hands and arms. I hate that feeling. That's why I sort of hate my old house in Seattle. Each night a wild tumble with an invisble web was guaranteed leaving that icky lingering feeling that something is wrong.