My First Wife, Phở' jita Jones

I never told anyone about my first wife, Phở' jita Jones. Like the Mexican cuisine. It's okay if you butchered the pronunciation of the word, I mean her mother already did,

Her eyes glowed purely of ember and could increase a mammal's body temperature by 1 degree if you made eye contact for more than 12 seconds. Her arms were longer than Mr. Fantastic and she could pee and wash her hands at the same time if the occasion were to arise. She communicated in Spanglish; part Spanish, part whatever qualifies as speech in Dekalb county. The only black girl from the dirty south with a framed and signed picture of Paz Vega in her room. Right above her nightstand.

Hmm, what else? She brushed her teeth 2.78 times a day, never been on a cruise ship, got a C - minus in 6th grade because a chair got tossed and hit that one nice kid who everyone likes in the back of the head, she learned how to make hog maws when she was 45 even though she passed away when she was 23 but was born in the 80s, and doesn't think OJ did it. She didn't know how to dance and didn't want to unless Tweet was singing.

She was tall, like a ficus. She skipped college and became a full-time entomologist and part-time doula but only on Tuesday at 6:37 pm.

One time I had asked her to marry me eventually but only when I learnt how to swim. She said she rather go to Arby's and replied with a hard maybe. I nodded my head and took her to get mango salsa and an indefinite supply of Tostito's. The only time I only ever saw her eyes turn to emerald was when they only had peach salsa. I thought that would be my last night on Earth. She conjured up Nina Simone to perform while my future ex-wife/potential baby mama set the discount aisle on fire with her pet Blue-Eyes White Dragon. $15,000 for the pet deposit was an absolute mess.

On our first date I had a nice lil' check so I took her to Applebee's like a proper human. Denny's is more of a luncheon sort-of-get-together. She asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up and I said me, but in 10 years. I asked her the same. On our first date in February 31st, 2016 and our last date on January 28th 2014 she said the same thing. Pulled me close by the collar, wrinkling my brother's over-sized Chap's. You know what that ficus lady told me? I don't remember to be honest. I'll let you know when I find that mango salsa.

"Guava Island" the musical by The Glovers was playing while I wrote this, doesn't have much of a connection to this post. But then again it does, 

The Story About You

The sun played hide-in-go seek behind the clouds with a long-legged lady not looking to find it. The lady had been scouring left-behind buildings, somewhere off San Pablo. Behind her, a miniature version of herself clung to her hip, disobeying the 6 feet rule.

Long-legged twiddled her freshly matte black finished thumbs together, looking through the windows of houses and businesses she playfully thought of renovating. She patted down her lengthy braids, pondering about the broken windows and decrypted roofs that may have held an ancestor of hers. The Little-legged girl kept the same serene eyes and other various subtle yet distinct facial structures as her gangly walking buddy. Almost as though they were the same person. Almost.

"Where are we going?" the little-legged girl asked for umpteenth time. The fire in her was replicated as well. "I'm hungry, and I didn't eat breakfast,"

The long-legged girl unintentionally ignored her, humming some song she couldn't remember from a family reunion. The song didn't appear to her but the memory of her uncle's dog snatching potato salad off the table made her silently smirk. She then remembered her cousins laughing at her huge shoe size, calling her "Baby Walrus". 

"That's a stupid name, do Walrus even have feet?" Long-legged muttered , loud enough for little-legged to respond. 

"I'm not stupid," she hastily replied. "You're the one who forgot the food in the car. Now when we come back, it's gonna smell like that stinky rice in the car," Making a gas face up towards her companion, almost stumbling on an overgrown branch.

Long-legged delicately caught little-legged by the wrist, as she resynchronized herself to walk upright again. Little-legged immediately and hopelessly tried to shove long-legged, as long-legged pretended to be hurt by the smaller human's flurry of gentle punches.

"Well you're a kid, you're supposed to be stupid. It's what the actual definition of being a kid is. So you can be stupid. Besides you left the food in the car!"

Angered, little-legged ran off into a building and slammed the door behind her. She aggressively yet accidentally yet assertively yet inadvertently tripped again, this time having scraped her left-lite leg against a piece of rusted rebar pipe, immediately wishing it was a piece of rhubarb pie from Rubicon's off of 23rd. The best/worst screen of all time quickly and loudly followed.

"AaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOIIIIIIIIIAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOooooaaaaaa!"

Long-legged glided into the seemingly ran down bakery-looking building, immediately spotting her little-legged bleeding from her left calf. "I told you to wear shoes when we go on hikes, and it's not safe to have your toes showing! You know you have to protect your feet, especially with all this debris. Come on, lemme just…" Long-legged unintentionally begin crying as well, trying to wrap out the badly injured leg with her Jean jacket

"But you're wearing sandals too," little-legged replied through mild-hypervenilated sobs. 

"Yeah, I kind of am wearing them too, huh," long-legged responded, giggling while wiping away both of their tears. First hers, then little-legged. "I guess we are both stupid. Let's go devour some chicken fries rice" as long legged propped herself back up, limping and holding her jacket against her own leg.

“If It Wasn’t For You” dictates the needing for one to not be special to one specific person , rather it explains the essential of one person

Life Without Cornbread Series #2: I Wanna Be Like Me When I Grow Up

After I begged my ELA teacher to let me leave class early to retrieve my bass clarinet, I hastily started my journey. 

From ELA to my locker to my old football locker to my band locker to funnel cake sale to home. Easy enough, right? Leaving early would ensure I wouldn't have time for whatever the debrauchery happening throughout the halls of Salem High School. My semester their had been filled with many unpleasantries: multiple thefts, bullying towards my Geometry teacher via the students, a couple of concussions from a short-lived football career, drug transactions, roundhouse kicks to student's temples via teachers, underage harassment, Hot Doritos breath, lack of trying, etc.

And then there was me, the gangily 5'11, 140 pound, 15 year-old who just wanted to make the Georgia All-State Band for bass clarinet and play Halo 3 on Xbox live. Heck, I'll take honorable mention. But Salem High School wanted to add some Sriracha to those plans. Expired Sriracha.

So as I said earlier, I had to get to my locker. Most people who knew or know me I kept or keep materials on me incase it hitted or hits the fan. Pencils, pens, paper, extra folders, snacks, water, extra reeds, I'm stocked. Do I remember to bring it to class? Let me finish,

I had arrived to my locker which was close in proximity to my last class. Luckily I typically do my homework expeditiously during lunch reluctantly. And I normally eat lunch as I'm walking from the checkout line to the trashcan. As I said, I like to game after school. And the football team isn't the kindest collection of folks sometimes, even when you leave the team after 1.5 months of getting your stuff pushed in. I'm fairly certain I spent most of the time sprawled out on the field, bleeding and crying internally. Just a couple of concussions.

These thoughts circulated in my head like carbon through the carbon cycle, as I found myself scrummigng around my old football locker, which I kept my other-other bag filled with gym-like clothes. Also where my Zune lived sometimes. Well , my Zune wasn't here, nor there, nor anywhere. How am I gotta walk home without listening to NERD's rock-rap album about being an adolescent by these 30 year olds? Tragic. 

I filed the complaint to a soggy gym teacher then scoot-scooted before the level-5 roasters came down. I can't even handle level-2 roasters. They're a lot more wittier than you would think, and I get embarrassed as easily as you would think. I left my gym-like bag in the locker room and carried on.

Okay, okay only two more stops. I'm moving right now. I wonder if Mac chewed up my fruit roll-ups from underneath my bed. Dang I was looking forward to that foot-long artificially flavored candy. As I ventured up the stairs, a group of students began crowding around someone. One of my favorite traits was minding my own business, especially when it came to fights. But fights love me. The whole crowd aggressively migrated to my walking path which was outside the terribly constructed circle. As I peaked up, I saw a slight glimmer of one the Offensive Coordinator from the varsity team connecting a roundhouse (I think it's called a roundhouse) to what I saw to be a student's greasy head region. I don't like running in the hallways, but this has to be a good reason. You have never seen a teenager swerve past the gym doors so elegantly. Okay, maybe one more peek...

As I said hey to my old band director who would be fired at the end of the semester for lewd comments made toward students which I could totally believe because he's kind of terrible , actually he is terrible but hilarious when he's not being terribleness, let's keep in mind I got to my band locker after 15 or so minutes from leaving ELA. I am a fast walker with the hip movements and striking the ground with the middle of my foot. Tom Bosworth would be proud. 

My bass clarinet was a weird trapezoid complex box thingy versus the traditional style long-a-bus-seat  rectangular prism case. Nonetheless (or nevertheless?) it was an awkward carry. And I had promised my mom a funnel cake by Monday. It was Thursday. I could do this nifty manuever where I stuffed my bass clarinet in one arm and pulled out my wallet and pulled out the money with the other; trust me, they called me Juan Suave. Allegedly. 

And allegedly I put my wallet back in my pocket. Allegedly.

Any-who-zers as I trekked home my inventory included, a bass clarinet in one hand, backpack with inventory in it (two straps because I'm not a psychopath), and a funnel cake in one hand. Moving as quickly as humanly possible to my house. I thought I was the bee-kneez because I walked to school. Who is anyone to say I ain't? "This guy" I said woefully toward the ground, feigning a smile, and humming "Everyone Nose". Something caught my eye up ahead, traveling north on Underwood Road.

There was a car on fire along the sidewalk off Underwood Road.

A cop stood casually beside it.

A bundle of middle schoolers waved me over, walking down Underwood Road.

I crossed Underwood Road.

They crossed Underwood Road.

They caught up with me.

Asked for some funnel cake under the plastic wrap.

They begin pushing me.

I pulled one piece for the most median looking child of the bunch.

The cop told them to scram.

I nonverbally thanked him.

Or her I don't remember.

I got home.

Gave my mom the funnel cake.

She said thanks.

I said you're welcomed.

She asked where was the change.

I checked my wallet.

I didn't have my wallet.

I told her I left my wallet in my locker.

I went to my room.

I sighed heavily.

I got on Xbox live.

I invited Gorillasmash79 and gtownboi to my party.

Told them about my day.

Gtownboi said "dang"

Gorillasmash79 said "I took your Zune"

Life Without Cornbread Series #1: Because Im Batman

I love sharing stories about my childhood. I've always thought they were funny. But everytime I share them with people, they swear I had the most pathetic childhood ever. Well let me explain,

I wasn't the smallest kid growing up but I wasn't the biggest kid in the neighborhood. I wasn't the smartest kid in the neighborhood but I wasn't the stupidest. I wasn't the kindest kid but I wasn't the nicest. Somewhere in Chester, Virginia you would find me right in the middle. The median on a stem-and-leaf plot. Completely average. So I thought.

These next few blog posts will be a specific series on stories from me in the various neighborhoods I lived in as a military brat, and what many people have described as "sad" or "dismal" or "feeble"

These series of stories are called: 

Life Without Cornbread

One of the more tramautic events of my childhood included the precense of bats. Like the ones from Pokemon. Or Batman. Or Scooby Doo. They came from the attic. To gain access to the attic in my house on the corner, you had to go into the middle bedroom on the second floor, go into the corner of the middle bedroom which had a lovely set of stairs leading up to a space we used for storage. Christmas decorations, old moving boxes, old treadmill machines, bloodthirsty furry savages, etc.

These beasts had the torso of 8 tater tots stacked on top of one another and the wingspan of a sea-glider paper airplane made by a 3rd grader. The one kid who flung actual boogers at people. 

So every summer from maybe 5th through 9th grade, these Ray Charles-sighted-chumps would find a small hole into the attic, fly down underneath the door , and go into the middle bedroom. My bedroom. And of course, only at night time in which they would hit me in the face with a soft WAH-PAH. I would put the covers over my head and start crying like this can't be how I die, oh no! I didn't even play the new Nintendo DS Lite yet!

I would camp out in the backyard, sleep on the sofa, try to sleepover my friends house. Showering? Sleep schedule? My video games? All up on the second floor, and I couldn't go up there. They would eat the livinf flesh from my skin , well , I thought. I've seen Disney Channel. And remember, I overthink now as a 20-something. Imagine me at 11 or 12 years old. What do you think was going through my mind during the day at Vacation Bible School or Engineering Camp or Summer School or any place my parents pawned me off at for a couple of months? Those winged freaks took up rent in my headspace. I was the Demar DeRozan to their LeBron James.

We had multiple people come through to see where they were flying through and it didn't work. But already being a punk growing up, I couldn't take it. I was terrified going to sleep without a night light, missing a note in band class, or walking up the stairs without anyone home. I was just hoping this would make me into a caped crusader or something cool. Maybe fight crime with Alex and Adam and get ripped and leave girls on read when I messaged them on AIM. 

But all it got me was paranoia, overdependency on humans, lack of sleep, and the unquenchable thirst of unlimited TOSTITOS. Years later I mostly got over my fear by misnetting bats by the Tallahatchie River at midnight and going on solo camping trips. 

I would have appreciated doning a cowl and having a sweet Butler. But all I got were way too many wigs.