If Jesus was a woman, let’s call her “Jesita,” do you think people would have worshiped her or labeled her a witch? History has been harsh to our honorable child-bearers and caregivers. Contrarily, many matriarchs and mother figures are mean, maniacal, malevolent motherfuckers. Anybody can be asinine or an asshole, right? Why do people pretend or protest to preclude particular familial titles from being pinpointed as problematic? I’ll get to that later, now back to Jesita. I believe that a female Jesus would have been judged a jezebel and jettisoned from Jerusalem. Humans have a hard time heralding hard-hitting, heavily heavenly women as heroes. And it’s because niggas is bitches—niggas as in males generally. But I digress, as I’ve deflated enough delicate egos—for now. Earlier this week, I saw a sad story on the news that showed some sick, sadistic mother who snuffed out her son’s light and stuffed him in a shallow grave in her back yard. The murder took place sometime after the 9-year-old boy reported to CPS (Child Protective Services) that his mom had intentions to kill him. With that in mind, it’d be foolish to forget that God’s wrath forced fires, famine, floods, and fatalities onto folks following their forgoing of his commandments. Wrath is extreme anger. And in God’s case, his rage sent him on a rampage of biblical proportions. Do you think The Most High’s maddest moment was justice or unjustifiable? My question is, how was he forgiving one moment and fed up to the point where he felt like striking fear was fair in the next? I don’t hate to say this, but God was triggered as fuck, wasn’t he? In my opinion, God’s wrath was unholy and overdramatic, and his “hell” is having to cope with the fact that he raised hell trying to help his hellish children—to no avail. Speaking of unhealed, unhinged, unstable, unmistakably undesirable energy, how many hypocritical haters have you had in your life? To reach my level of maturity, emotional intelligence, and wisdom, you must be innately mature, intelligent, and have a natural capacity for understanding. That’s not to say that one can’t grow to gain grace, goodness, and grandeur. But fundamentally, we are who we are. In an effort to find my faults, flaws, follies, and potential triggers, my foes—the Feds—take it that the turbulence and troubles among my estranged relatives is a soft spot for me. News flash, not! Ultimately, I tell the truth because I’m tough enough to take the twitting and talking. Click here to see text messages that an older male relative sent toward a young female relative on Christmas last year. Peep the threats, sanctimony, self-righteousness, and shameful (yet, shameless to them) sucker shit. This person swears that they’re smart and strong-minded, but it seldom shows. Moreover, there’s nothing scary about this person, they simply signal sadness. Not to mention, this motherfucker is clearly inspired by me, but not enough to evolve or elevate near my level. We live in a world where ideas set intentions. And many males intend to make masculinity their main attribute. Unfortunately, know-nothing-ass niggas think being masculine means nothing but exuding maliciousness. So, when they think they’re standing up for something, they’re really just starting shit. When they call themselves defending their dignity, their defensiveness is demonstrating that they’re definitely oversensitive. Stable people are balanced in their emotions. And in the same way that a gymnast must be focused and centered to keep their footing on a beam, everyone needs balance to avoid losing control. Let’s leave the flipping out and falling off to the acrobats, okay? Push positivity, not people—with yo’ punk-ass! Fuckin’ humans, am I right? Y’all don’t have a clue how susceptible to reality you are, because if you did, you’d be realer.
For the record, if you bring any bullshit to me or to my attention—if y’all haven’t figured this out by now—I’m going to make an example out of you! So, remember when I said, “the synthesizing of scenarios—such as stealing my situations and saying their someone else’s—is a sly way to sneak diss me while no one else is suspecting…?” Well, they’re still tirelessly trying to throw me into a tumultuous, topsy-turvy loop—toiling to thwart my triumph. And if you’re tired of reading about this shit, that’s how these motherfuckers want me to feel about existing! I was scrolling on YouTube the other day, and saw a Short of “Caramel Cutie’s” podcast, which made me search the pod to catch a clip of the latest episode. Of course, the clip contained a corny story about the time “Space Cakes”—a nickname given to one of the podcast members—got high on two weed brownies after Thanksgiving dinner. However, some of the specifics of the silly story were snatched from my past. Such as how I used to play NBA Jam with my cousin Calvin in my uncle Anthony’s basement. And how when I initially met said uncle, at the same house, he greeted me before asking if I “wanted anything,” afterwards informing me that he had “cake, cookies, pie, and brownies.” Now, mister “Space Cakes,” tell everybody that you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, effectively making you a liar! You know, y’all sure lie a lot for people who claim to dislike dishonesty. I’ve never told that story on the blog, so the Feds likely interviewed, interrogated, or tapped said cousin and/or uncle’s phones to retrieve the information. There’s a few reasons the Feds could be doing this. One, in an attempt to drive me crazy, they’re designing this realm of doubt meant to convince me that I’m dreaming or drowning in a state of delusion. Two, they’re likely led to believe that leeching off my life’s history will discourage me from persisting or dissuade me from sharing my stories—insinuating that they know me better than I know myself and/or that my stories aren’t special. Three, they believe that me highlighting their oppressive obsession with me and my life will make you—the readers—think I’m incredible, but not in the awesome way. “Cutie,” don’t worry, I’m not going to dox you—your number is safe. But if you’re embarrassed, you did it! Shit, all I’m doing is telling MY story. Also, you don’t have to worry about me telling my loyal readers how you once requested money for lunch and I told you I was broke, we’ll keep that a secret. Y’all tried to beat me to the punch and just assisted in the allure of my mystique. The crazy part about this shit is, the inconsequential instances that you’re implementing from my life’s history aren’t as interesting or compelling as the story of you stealing my fucking stories in the first place! Like, y’all dumb as hell! Again, I’m not crazy. And I’m going to keep “telling their terrible tactics” till they’re tired. Have you ever felt like the only sane person on Earth? Like I said before, imagine placing a single democrat in the middle of a crowd of republicans during a Trump rally. Indubitably, being lone among like-minded people—as the odd man out—you’re going to be perceived as problematic. So, if you dare to disrupt, be unalike and unafraid. Why would you ever ask for permission to fuck shit up? At this point, if you can’t feel the shift, you’re senseless. I am inevitable! And if you’re reading this, it’s too late. Peace.