Gazing Out The Window: The Thunderbolt

Written a good while back, one of the deepest and most personal things I've ever written...

My name is Chris Lamb. I'm a college student in Atlanta, a Man of Morehouse in his sophomore year with a lot of things going for him, and just as many not going for him. My intelligence is high, but I hardly use it for school purposes. I could easily find a job if I didn't have such negative views of work (ask about my dream of working at Starbucks). I don't have a license or a car, which wouldn't matter anyway seeing as Atlanta is nearly out of gas, and I'm a poet and a damn good writer in general, and ever since I was six I've had interesting (to say the least) views on love and relationships.

Yesterday I was walking around campus looking for a friend of mine. He was in a car and he was making his weekly trip to Atlanta (he's a big shot, thick knot in his wallet, got enough money to send your whole damn family to college) and I needed to go to Wal-Mart, so he offered a ride, a ride I accepted.

As we were leaving the campus, I saw this girl walk by. She was smiling, and I think the most appropriate thing to say was that I had caught the Thunderbolt, that Godfather emotion that strikes when someone instantly develops a deep, deep, less than love, somewhat lustful feeling whenever that person comes to mind. I saw her, turned my head to continue to look at her, and I had no idea that we were halfway to Wal-Mart by the time I was out of the accidental trance she put me in. Yes, this was the Thunderbolt, and I think natural shyness, classic word slip-ups, and adolescent fear of rejection is going to keep me from both finding her again and even striking up a conversation if chance presented an opportunity.

So why am I putting my business out there like this? I think I have several reasons, ranging from the nervous to the bold. Maybe it's a subtle way of putting my GIRLFRIEND WANTED ad in the Facebook classifieds. I think its more of a common story.

Here's the reason in its most literal form: my friend and I, right now, are chatting back and forth. Earlier we were talking about relationships, and how both of us are gurus of sorts within our circles of friends, people that others usually come to for advice and wisdom. Oddly enough, when it comes to relationships, its more like a confessional than a plea for help.

I won't use names. One time a friend of mine came to my home. He brought his girlfriend with him, something I didn't anticipate (he claimed he wanted to come over to say goodbye; I was bound for my freshman year) and we all sat down. He was a narcissist, she was a bitch (a female narcissist). Both of them had inflated views of themselves, both of them were assholes, but I could see past that, that they were both crazy about each other. I didn't want either of them to change, and I needed the two to show each other how much they loved each other. I did it the best way I knew how.

I told my friend to bite himself. Both of them were confused. I know some of you have figured out already where that comes from, but I loved it because that was on some real shit. So he did, and he left a bite mark on his arm. Then I told him to bite his hand, to show how much he loved this girl here. He shrugged and did it. To this day we still have to get that stain out of our carpet.

Love is insanity, something I've been advocating for a good while now. You wouldn't bite yourself to the point of bleeding if you weren't insane. Now his girlfriend understood this immediately. After getting my friend some bandages I explained to him what he just did, and they both got it. They're still together today.

So, since I've been advocating love going hand in hand with insanity for the past nearly fifteen years now, I had to stop myself and try to decipher what that feeling I had was when I saw that girl yesterday. Its easy to get feelings of puppy love at first sight, just juvenile "like" that comes with youthful base lust, appeal to the eyes before innocence is lost. This wasn't that. There are vibes, but that's between two people. I seriously doubt that she even knows I exist. There's base lust. That's what many men in my age group, especially in college, experience. Lust, primal urges that manifest into often misguided sexual relationships that sometimes result in irreparable damage, either to your life, theirs, "other"... so watch yourself. Those feelings I know well, very well, but this was new, this was scary.

How can I explain it? Imagine, if you will, that you're sitting naked in a meadow. This meadow is overflowing with thorn less roses of every color under the sun, varying heights and shades, all ready to bloom. There is a gentle breeze blowing that cools off any heat from the gentle sun's rays. The grass is just a little wet from morning dew... the roses are beginning to shiver in anticipation of blooming... (if you have a girlfriend or a boyfriend put her or him in your mind right now) and boom! There she is, just standing naked amongst the tallest of the roses, not ashamed, basking in the glory of a perfect soul. All the roses bloom in perfect unison, tossing off the dew that was once on them... I can only picture so many things more perfect than that.

And maybe I'm looking way too far into it. It's very inappropriate to think about a still unknown girl naked, even if its in a somewhat poetic way. Down the line, if fate is as cruel as I think it is, I might have explain the beauty of that daydream to her, but until then, it's nicely implanted in the back of my mind (sorry, mystery girl). Back on topic, though, I think this feeling is dangerous. I've been in lust and I've been in love, and you are about thirty to forty times less suicidal in the former. You would kill yourself for someone you're in love with; you'd kill that person you were in love with BECAUSE you love them, love is a dangerous thing to be in. I'm not in love with someone I don't know; the odds of that happening with anybody is about 99 billion to less than one. This feeling is foreign. It scares me.

People come to me for relationship advice because I can comprehend love and I can understand one basic fact that most people do not get. Men and women love differently. Men rarely fall in love immediately. Women are in love with you before they meet you, that knowledge is already implanted in them. They don't know who, but they know he's out there, and when they meet him (and sadly most do not) its a wrap. Also, men do not understand the love that women have. Women understand what kind of love men have, but the mirror is only one way. So, as we're sitting in the dark, trying to figure out just why the hell some of these women love us, they're sitting back laughing at us even as they kiss us goodnight.

This takes us to the concept of girlfriends. For me, I've always been kind of bad in relationships. I've always been able to comprehend what was going on, reading a girl's feelings and all that, but the thing that pissed me off always was how a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship isn't really that; it's a girl's relationship or a boy's relationship, rarely both. For me it's been the former or the latter. Either the girl was in control of the relationship, and I didn't realize it early enough to break up cleanly, or I was in total control, which sounds nice, but I want a girl that's a little more self reliant that that. My last relationship, however, put me in a weird state, a state that really changed the way I put my words when it comes to the situation.

I was sitting down with her, the girl I was with last, at the mall. I knew what I needed to say, but I wasn't sure if she would understand. We were eating from some fast food place, what place I can't say, but she was stunned when I said this, exactly, "See, I want a girl when I want a girl, and when I don't want a girl I want a girl who understands that."

Was it the right thing to say? Maybe not at that point. That's a hard thing for a girl to swallow when she actually likes you, but she was a little controlling. That's not why I broke it off with her, mind you, she was actually cheating on me, but that's pretty irrelevant. The above statement (props to the people that know where it came from) meant that right then, through my fault, I wasn't really trying to have a girl at that point. Outside of the cheating, she was real cool, and if she wasn't, I wouldn't have broken it off so much as put it on hold. If she understood, however, I think we might have been together longer.

Call it fear. See, I'm going to tell you a secret, reader, and if you're a woman you'll really appreciate this: men what a girl when they want a girl, and when they don't want a girl they want a girl that understands that. What are the odds of finding those? Pretty damn impossible. Why? Because while every woman has that capacity they usually only have it for one man, and that one man is hard to find. And its a hard thing to explain to a girl that really likes, even loves you, but its a thing all guys want.

So, back to my current dilemma: this foreign feeling, this Thunderbolt. I'm not wondering if she's this girl, this one that understands when I want a girl and when I don't, but this feeling has me contemplating parts of verses I recall in rap songs most people will never hear like they should. One rapper (really, I want y'all to tell me who, prove to me you listen to real hip hop) said, in an entire of part of his verse:

Sometimes I think I'm from another world (preach)
When I'm tryna tell a woman just exactly where I stand that (aight)
I want a girl, when I want a girl
And when I don't want a girl, I want a girl who understands that
And that's some hard shit to explain
To a woman that's in love with you, it's a pitiful thing
Until I had to figureThat I don't wanna play around, but I don't wanna settle down
And that's a man's dilemma, 'cause every man remembers
How his daddy and his uncles did it
'Cause more than likely that's the way they're gonna do it
I know it sound fucked up and most wont admit it
But yo, I gotta face it 'cause I know I'm living through it
'Cause when the party stops and niggas get old
And the chain and the cars and the houses get sold, and that
Other side of the bed gets cold, you don't wanna be alone

It wasn't just the answer to how I felt, shit, how I FEEL sometimes, but it was like listening to a mirror, listening to sights I seldom hear. He was speaking to what I was trying to explain to that girl then. I think... I think it's because I grew up a little bit too early. I forget my age and stop remembering that I'm 19, not 99. Maybe I shouldn't worry about love like I do, but I'm a poet, I just do it on instinct. I suppose I want to love, and not that puppy love, that vibe, that lust, but love, something I've been told about since the age of four, something I write about in hundreds of forms be it the good or the bad side of love. I think it's a little ironic that I can use that song that aforementioned verse came from down to the crack about the Nissan (that he's still paying a lease on) and work that perfectly into my life (technically I have a Nissan too, one I have to pay a lease on).

But I'm scared at the same time. I don't want to make another mistake, you know? I approach relationships as a whole with caution. Heh, and here's the saddest part about this: women will love it, but they'll call me a bitch because of it. It's one of those curses of time. One day, one day in the future, the guy like me will be the ideal kind of guy, but right now I'm the bitch. Fine, I'll deal with it, I'll be the "bitch" as people like to put it until that status is disbanded and I'm the desirable. I won't change for anyone.

So, finishing this unnecessarily long note off, I think I was hit the Thunderbolt. If I see her again, I'll probably stop in my tracks and look like a total fool. I grew up too fast to really know how to respond too. I guess I'll just follow my usual philosophy, both my most attractive and my most disgusting feature: my lack of care. That's not to say I don't care, but to say that I'd rather go with the flow of life than try and steer a boat against it. Detours are one thing, but going against the tide? No, I don't do it. Until next time, loyal reader(s), I'm out, the philosophical love sick lamb, Chris.

Gazing Out The Window: Growth...

Yes, I happily call you (you in the plural sense if you want me to seem polite; you in the singular if you want to consider me the asshole that I usually am) niggas because I write some serious shit most of the time and I intend for people to read it, spread it, otherwise I become bitter and borderline homicidal, and I have a vague idea where most of you live. Take the hint.

I'm being overly cruel. Maybe it's just that nagging alter ego of mine telling me to exact revenge on the people that used to have my back, but now seem to be so caught up in their own lives that they can't even drop a line. Believe it or not that includes few if any people I know on Facebook; I refer back to the first verse (hell, the entire track) of "What's Up, Fatlip?", the only single off of former Pharcyde front man's (alliteration) debut album, Theloneliest Punk. I know it by heart, but here's what sticks out:

"Full of dreams, determination, self esteem,
But now it seems, they hesitate to be on my team,
You know the routine, when you winning they grinning,
All up in your face like they were with you from the beginning,
But on the flip side, when you washed up like a riptide,
Fools clown 'bout how you slipped and let shit slide"

Speaks to a situation I think I'm in. Look at that, I got so caught up in my disappointment in the human race that I lost my train of thought. This particular soon-to-be-unread gem is about growth, growth I've seen amongst the people I've known since... I'm not sure how long. Especially now I see some things that make me say, "Wow, that's the same person I knew in high school?"

Suppose it's the gift and the curse of growing older, wiser, sexier, what have you. Some people I've seen now, compared to how they were in high school or even before, are smarter, wiser (guru-like sometimes), conceited, more well endowed (the breasts on the ladies grow very nicely, I am not ashamed to say), more worldly, and, in the case of the negative, more bitchy. Again, I say this out of observation, not spite. I call a lot of you presumptuous dickheads out of spite, as well as miserable cock munchers, but that's just me and my ever growing witty wordplay at work.

Back to the subject at hand.. again. The positive growth I've seen in people fills me with a sense of satisfaction, if you can believe that. One thing I've picked up on is spiritual growth, a closer bond with the Lord. Being a practicing Catholic I can understand and support this kind of relationship wholeheartedly. I'm not mad about it at all. At the same times, the ones that have chosen to have no faith or subscribe to a atheist point of view, I'm happy to see they're not just saying they don't believe in God and leaving it there. There are arguments and mutual feelings, morals and values, actual thoughts and motives, not just saying there is no God for the sake of saying it (kind of like a lot of people say Lil Wayne is the best rapper alive but can't logically defend the statement). I'm not endorsing any particular religion with this post (I have my own personal battles with Catholicism to draw my gun for) but there's growth, no longer childish "I do this because I was taught to do it" but more "I do this because I think it's right".

I don't know how better to put this. Maybe it's because I'm tired, hyped up on sugar, playing Rock Band 2 and Saints Row 2 at about the same time, lusting after some porn stars I'll never meet as well as friends I don't have the balls to talk to about it to, and listening to the most awful interpretation of Take On Me, but I think I've gotten my point across very easily in just one paragraph. If not then I'll write it again, for my own amusement, but more so for you ungrateful bastards that just run over the notes written by DiZ... that was mean too, but prove me wrong. Peace.

Porch Wisdom: Why Men Lie

Ladies, I know there are a couple of questions that you've always had for men, such as why do we ogle at other females? Why do we insist on lying rather than telling the truth? Why do we never change? Well I'm here to answer one of those questions definitely and maybe one or two more, but don't get your hopes up.

I can answer one with this story. Pay close attention.

One day a woodcutter was walking along a river, whistling a tune and holding a common steel axe. He accidentally hit a rock and tripped, and sadly his axe went falling into the river. He cried and cried, until his cries were directed towards the Lord. In the form of a man, God asks the woodcutter, "My child, why do you weep?" With tears in his eyes the woodcutter explains that his axe fell into the river and God reaches into the river. He brings out a golden axe and asks the woodcutter if this axe is his axe. The woodcutter says no. God again reaches into the river and this time pulls out a silver axe. God asks the same question and the woodcutter responds the same way. Tossing the silver axe next to the golden one God reaches into the river one more time and reveals a steel axe. Overjoyed the woodcutter tells God that that is his axe and, just as overjoyed because of the man's honesty, God gives all three axes to the woodcutter as a reward. The woodcutter walks back to his humble hut, watching out for rocks, and tells his wife about his good news and fortune.

A week later the woodcutter and his wife, a wife who resembles Salma Hayek, are walking along the very same river. Ironically enough she trips on the very same rock that the woodcutter did before. The woodcutter, cursing his misfortune, cries, and in the same way as before God comes down from Heaven to the woodcutter.

"My child, what makes you cry today?" God asked. The woodcutter, hesitating for a moment, reveals that his wife had fallen into the river, and that he could not swim, his reasoning for not diving in for his axe before. God reaches into the river and pulls out a woman that resembles Halle Berry. God asked, "Is this your wife?"

"Yes, that's her, thank you very much!" said the woodcutter. He replied quickly and reached for the woman and God quickly moved her out of the way. There was fury in his eyes as he said, "YOU SPEAK FALSE! This is not your wife; what you have said is an untruth!"

The woodcutter sighs and shrugs his shoulders. He explains, "I understand that, God, and I'm sorry, but let me explain. See, I know that she's not my wife, and it's not usually in my nature to lie, but let's say I DID say that she wasn't my wife. You'd put her down there and you'd reach into the river and pull out Angelina Jolie, or Katie Holmes, or Kelly Hu, or Jessica Alba, or what had you. You'd ask me if she was my wife and I'd say no and you'd put her down and you'd reach into the river again and you'd pull out my wife. I'd say yes and you would smile and give me all three as wives. But my Lord, I'm but a poor woodcutter. I can hardly afford to pay for what I have now; there's no way that I can possibly support two more wives!"

The moral of the story: whenever a man lies he does so for a good reason.

So there's your answer to one question. I think I can effectively answer another while making something clear. Most females enter a relationship expecting to change their man. Most men enter a relationship hoping their woman never changes. Some females can change their man and they're disappointed with the change, unfairly blaming the man if he changes and unfairly blaming the man if does not. Some men keep their woman the same and get mad if she ceases to have at least some kind of mind of her own, unfairly blaming the woman if she does the same thing and unfairly blaming the woman if she does not stay the same. Let's examine that.

You want a long lasting relationship? You do? Then first, and this is for both men and women, stop anticipating ANYTHING. Leave some room for change, MASSIVE change, and be like Nike: impossible is nothing. Part two: if you're a man, know that your girl is more than likely going to change. If you're a woman, know that your man is more than likely going to stay the same. I can't speak for females too much, but us guys have a strange habit of never veering too far off course of our original paths. As soon as that is accepted then the relationship can flourish more. Lastly, don't think that just because things aren't entirely going your way the relationship is failing. If the other starts cheating then yes, you can pretty boldly say the relationship is failing, but if there's just some arguing, some backtalk and harsh wordplay, the relationship may not be over.

But you must remember this one thing. Ladies and gentlemen, of graduating internet class of 2009, I have this one piece of advice for you. No matter what a man tells you, he has a good reason for lying. Always. Oh, there may be bullshit in the methodology and reasoning, but there's always a good reason.

The end.

Swimming in the Neighbor's Pool: Why I Don't Call Biggie's 2nd Album a Classic

I guess its time for me to step on some fingers here, start a meaningless debate that'll probably, nay, SURELY go on forever with no resolution because people are going to angrily deny what I'm saying. Before we get to that point, however, allow me to remind people that the title statement is an opinion alone and everyone is entitled to theirs. With that being said:

This probably isn't the best time to say something like this, seeing as the decent (transcended MY expectations) biopic of the late great artist is still in full effect. I find it interesting that the soundtrack for the movie would be a much better "greatest hits" album than virtually anything Diddy put out later... but that's irrelevant. Allow me to step on some fingers with this statement: Life After Death is not a classic album in my opinion.

Before I get the hate mail and death threats, allow me to explain. Too many people, hopefully nobody there will be on this thread, like to consider Life After Death a classic for two reasons. For one, it was the last new material released before Biggie's death. It was fantastic material mind you, virtually flawless (slightly but noticeably flawed) but classic? Not to me.

Reason two: it was the Notorious B.I.G. A lot of people consider him one of the greatest, and with good reason, I do to, but I can't go so far as to call him the greatest. Some of these people (dick riders and stans for the most part) get all defensive and bitchy when they hear someone not call their favorite rapper the greatest, but when it comes to arguments the usual rebuttal is a verse. In all seriousness, that's not a real argument; it's an example of lyricism.

Case in point, I can't call Life After Death a classic. Do I consider Ready to Die a classic? Yes, I do, because there was something... gritty? Yes, gritty about that LP. Part of me doesn't approve of the pop/mainstream crossover appeal of the second LP, and the other part of me appreciates the nearly guest less aesthetic that Biggie commanded with his debut. I'm a fan of Mo Money, Mo Problems, Hypnotize, and others, but hey, that's where some contradiction comes into play.

The Notorious B.I.G. was known for storytelling, and I'll be damned if he didn't do so with both albums. First album: hustler. Second album: hustler turned mafioso boss. The production compliments that nicely, beautifully in fact. The beats were made to compliment the rise of the hustler, and that's cool. I like that.

HOWEVER, personal feelings keep me liking the grittier sound of Ready to Die much more. I'm not going to say one sounds more real than the other, but Ready to Die keeps a grittier feel to it.

Ultimately I can say I like the story of the hustler more than the story of the kingpin, and I'm not trying to intentionally step on any toes by calling the second album from the late great artist a non-classic, but it's all how I feel about it. So...

Now that I'm tied to a wooden post, surrounded by flammable material, I await the torches and pitchforks. Have at it!

Random Hallway Thoughts: Things I Really Hate, Part 1

Hello ladies, gentlemen, and everything in between. For all of you that know me, I hate everything, but somethings I hate more than others. What gets to me the most, however, is things that I can't understand. These piss me off even more because I don't have an general basis for my hatred for them, but I hate them. Oh, how I hate them... some of these include....

1) Bahamians who get insulted when accused of being Jamaican: reasoning behind this is a friend, who is tagged in this note, is constantly barraged with accusations of being from Jamaica. It's all a joke, he knows it but yet he still complains. Oh well.

2) Spelman bitches: self explanitory. If you're from Spelman and you're a bitch, you are a Spelman bitch, and you confuse me to the point of anger.

3) People that can't laugh at comical little one-liners: I got a few people in mind for this one.

4) Black folk afraid of their religion: in the words of Tubesteak, "Fine, we'll worship the Lord by our goddamned selves!" Still, why don't you people just get with the program and praise the Lord if you believe in him?!

5) Nick Cannon: if I have to explain this then you're stupid.

6) Mariah Carey's attraction to Nick Cannon: if I have to explain this one then you're twice as stupid.

7) Crappy one-liners: Hey, I got a joke. Knock knock! Who is there? Shut the hell up, that's who!

8) Shawty Lo: this bastard is "Foolish", talking about "Dey Know" when we don't know shit! "Dunn dunn" my ass, that's just dumb dumb!

9) Why Little Brother is still so underrated: Two classics (according to rapreviews.com) and a third great album. Southern artists with dope beats, dope rhymes, what the hell?

10) Lil Wayne dick riders: make some room for Nivea and Birdman!

11) Soulja Boy's financial success: no wonder the nigga got robbed! It was about principal!

12) Chris Brown and Rihanna (aka the New Ike and Tina Turner): Scenario? Chris: I thought I told your stupid ass to stop running out on me?! Did you run it again?! Bitch! *slap* Rihanna: No, Chris, no, Chris, no! Why...?!

13) How Jay-Z pulled in Beyonce: Scenario again? Jay-Z: hey, if you let me blow up your car you'll be famous-er! Beyonce: okay! *Crazy in Love video, Beyonce in car* Beyonce: Why are the doors locked? Shawn didn't... oh no...! *Jay in foreground with lighter in hand and gasoline trail from him to car. Drops lighter* Jay-Z: Rihanna like a vacuum. You ain't. *Car explodes. Jay starts rapping. Beyonce shows up a second later. JayZ (thought): This bitch is a zombie!

14) Hot dogs versus hot dog buns: the eternal question. Consolt Bulletproof Monk for further details.

15) Why has there not been a collaborative album between Percy Miracles and Randy Watson?: More than likely because Miracles choked on a chicken bone and Watson still hasn't come back. I guess the greatest love of all ISN'T inside of him.

Kitchen Chat: Bitches Ain't Shit

Usually I'm very, VERY calm when its raining. Chill, laid back current West Coast beats play in my head and I reminisce. Sometimes I lie on a patch of grass and let raindrops hit my head. It's therapeutic. Then again, I have other ways of relaxing myself. Usually I listen to music or play a video game (Dead or Alive 4's Survival Mode is pretty great) when I'm stressed and the rain isn't pouring. I usually get stressed when I either a)deal with people I don't feel like dealing with, b)have a bad day that good music won't solve, or c)drift too deeply into my world of false reality when previous in a less than fair mood. Suffice to say that few if any of my stressful moods reach pleasant outcomes before going to bed. On the rare occasions that they do its because I had something surprisingly pleasant happen to me between the bad event and the resting period. Again, its rare.

Here's something I find interesting. My most stressful moments come from bitches. I'm not using bitches as a disrespectful term for females but rather a disrespectful term for anybody that deserves the title, male or female. Quoting a friend of mine, "Nobody likes a bitch." I couldn't agree more, but that's the unfortunate circumstance of knowing a multitude of bitches.

Let me ease up. I don't want to get too out of line. I stand by what I've said though. The reasoning behind this note is to elaborate on my problems. I'm partly asking for advice, and the other part of me is venting. A third part is considering calling people out by their names, but that's completely unnecessary. In any case, check this out:

I constantly go to this place, and several others do too. This people are cool, I consider them family. There's one (actually there are a number, but one I know more than others) that constantly pisses me off. I'd call it an superiority complex, but I won't because I don't know all the specifics of that sort of thing. This person has a high and mighty air about them and it affects the people around them, often to the point where they don't act the same.

BUT!

Yes, but... that's not the big problem. That could just be an intimidating presence or a natural personality, I can't knock that because I'm an asshole by nature and some people are just like that. The way I see it sometimes you just have to grin and bear some things.

HOWEVER!

Yep, however... there's naturally being an asshole and there's KNOWING that you're an asshole and not noticing how much of a bitch you're being. Not just that, but then there's having the nerve to ask for a favor when such an attitude exists. My response to that: "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck YOU!"

I don't harbor any kind of ill will towards anyone, especially not at first glance or meeting, but sometimes you can't help but want to strike some things. Like, the image I constantly get is that person saying something that finally pisses me off more than I can process at once. I leave the room, get a drink, and take a walk. Don't think for a second that Christopher Lamb isn't argumentative but I'm not the kind of person to actually start an argument, just end it. My fear is that an argument between the two of us will drift. By drift I mean it'll go from this:

Me: You keep acting like a mooching bitch then I'll start treating you like a mooching bitch!

Them: You don't know what the hell you're talking about, get the hell out of my face with that!

And turn into this:

Me: This is stupid. It's not even about anything anymore; you just wanna win a fight!

Them: Just shut up and admit I'm right!

And because I see so much of myself in them I have a bad, BAD feeling that that's exactly how it'll play out. Believe me, it's scary. But hey, whatever happens happens; that doesn't excuse acting like a bitch though. I don't want to come across as too cruel because I might just be attracted or more friendly to people like this, something I admit is... odd, but true.

Then again, I need to bring up something else, something a friend of mine brought up. I'm going to just straight target a select group of people for this one because I'm REALLY narrowing this one (I apologize to those I tag that fall into the category but really don't... you know what I mean!): Spelman women!

Yes, I already hate the AUC and the schools thereof, but if I have a problem with any mass of people it's the archetype Spelman woman, no, the STEREOTYPE Spelman woman. You know what I fear? I fear that perhaps Keshia Knight Pulliam or Alice Walker is such a bitch in person. I don't think Esther Rolle was a peach either, I think she was a cool asshole, like the one you know to be sarcastic and witty but still cool in the process.

My beef with Spelman women could be another blog entirely, but forget that. I try to hold the door for some Spelman girls and I get a disapproving look and some backtalk, I DON'T NEED THAT SHIT! I'm just trying to be nice but if another girl gets in my face on that shit I swear I'm letting the door hit them in the face and I'll LAUGH ABOUT IT!

Moving to the other side of the gender spectrum, male assholes are an interesting concept. One: there's more of a less defined line between being an asshole and being a dick (the former isn't necessarily a bad thing and the latter always is). Two: these extremes are always displayed as if there's only one extreme. By that I mean he's either the asshole or he's the dick, and there's never an in between. Oh, you can find middle ground for a moment or two, but for good, nope. For example: George Bush is an asshole; his son is a dick. Clinton is an asshole. I'm just waiting to see what extreme Obama ends up on.

To lose this rambling streak I'm against I need to make the point that part of my hatred for Morehouse is the bitches there, and by bitches I'm referring to those that contribute to 90 percent of the college's population. These are the bitches, those that just bend over as Morehouse takes a paddle and goes Beerfest on their ass on a nightly basis. That's annoying because these aren't the kind of people Morehouse is trying to produce; and yet these are 90 percent of the people Morehouse graduates! What the hell is that about?

No, I'm done, I'm tired of ranting and rambling. I can finish this later and continue with it on a later date when I get my composure back, fuck it. Peace...

Toilet Talk: Valentine's Day Can Fuck Itself!

First off, no tagging because I want EVERYONE to read this. Second, I'm not writing this because I don't have a Valentine. On the contrary, this should make you wonder why the hell you're with someone right now at all. I'm not knocking any relationships but hell, here's my beef.

Every February the 14th couples, married folk, fuck buddies, etc., they decide to spend a little time, money or strength on something for their opposite, usually considered their better half. This time, money or strength is often manifested as candy (chocolate for the most part), flowers (another big seller), a cheesy Hallmark card, a sappy poem, false (but not always) assurances of love, services done for each other (take that however you want, loyal reader), and, my personal favorite, the occasional wedding ring.

Every February the 15th, however, all that shit is tossed out the window. On February the 13th the people prepare to spend a little time, money or strength on their opposite for candy, flowers, Hallmark, stupid poetry, what have you. On February the 12th there's a panic in the giver because he or she (usually he I'm sorry to say)is absent minded and did something last minute. On February the 11th it's just another day. Fast forward to February the 16th and, unless something breathtaking (do NOT take that however you want) happened on the 14th then you can compare it all to Lupe Fiasco's opening lines in the Superstar (remix):

You on your fifteenth minute of fame.
And on the sixteenth, beginning the lame.
And on seventeen, you lose everything.
The twenty-first is the worst.
Wishing you was eleven popping like you was seven.
With the feeling when you were seconds

Translation:

You on your fifteenth minute of fame. (Valentine's Day)
And on the sixteenth, beginning the lame. (The day after)
And on seventeen, you lose everything. (Two days after Valentine's Day)
The twenty-first is the worst. (Now Valentine's Day is a distant memory)
Wishing you was eleven popping like you was seven. (Back to when the love was declared)
With the feeling when you were seconds (When it all actually began)

I know what some of you are saying. "DiZ, you poetic mastodon, why so vulgar with your rant this time?" Easy, my friend! Me personally, love is a beautiful thing. If love truly DOES exist between two folk, then why is there a necessary day out of more than 360 of them to express it? Think about it.

A man will bring his wife flowers and chocolate on Valentine's Day, half because he loves her, half for the sex that would come later that night. He'll do it on her birthday. He might do it on Christmas. If they have kids, he'll do it on Mother's Day. Whatever happened to, "I did it because it was Wednesday"? What the hell happened to, "Just a random reminder of my love"? Am I the only one who sees shit this way?

NO, STOP! Don't get pissed at me if you don't agree. First off all, I see oppositions to what I'm saying all the time. I see some people genuinely in love, and they use Valentine's Day as a Regular Day x 1.5 and I applaud that. They still show each other love on a daily basis! Always calling with those little notes of love.

See, that's what I want to see on Valentine's Day. I want to see shit that is an advanced version of what is normally done, not a one shot deal. I've seen it all over the place and not enough, and sadly most of it has been on TV. Remember that episode of The Simpsons where Apu Nahasapeemapetilon gave his wife, Manjula Nahasapeemapetilon, a weeks worth of Valentine's Day things? That was out of the ordinary. Every other day he was usually showing the woman some love.

Again, I'm not trying to knock anybody, or rather I may just be, but the way I see it, Valentine's Day, in its present capacity, is hardly anything more than a useless holiday specifically for the fine companies of Hallmark, Hershey, and Trojan, in that chronological order. My point in one sentence: if you celebrate Valentine's Day then make sure that you're doing it as an extension of regular days, not a special stand alone day.

Toilet Talk: Leaving Morehouse, the Why and the Vampire Effect

Disclaimer: I am quite adept in the use of hyperbole. Some of it is in this particular post. Enjoy.

Today I went to the office of student services at Morehouse College. I needed to get a form signed to complete my transfer. When the lady saw it she said, "This is for Clark though." I said, "Yes." Then she said, "You leaving here?" Again I said yes. I wanted her to ask, "Why?" but my answer would have come across as rude. What was priceless was her look of total disbelief and shock. Part of it may be attributed to me wearing my Morehouse jacket, but logically I'm going to keep that jacket and wear it often because it cost me 100 bucks.

Case in point, as I was departing the office I had to hold back a laugh. I think the lady was a little sick on the stomach after seeing that note. Clark Atlanta University Dean Certification form; it was a long search for it but when I found it I decided to take care of it as soon as possible. By the time I'm finished with this note I should have it taken care of but as of now it isn't. Whatever.

Like I said earlier, I would have loved to have answered her "Why?" question, but she didn't. If I had the time then my answer would have been like the Rodney King incident, with me being the cops and Morehouse being King. If I only have a few minutes I would have said, "With all due respect, ma'am, I'd rather not say." The fact of the matter is that it really wasn't her business, but if I did explain it then she would have heard that I have a dwindling love for the school itself. In my nicest terms I can put it like this: I placed a crown of expectation above the head of Morehouse that it has yet to even reach for.

This is going to sound rough, and by rough I mean unpolished. Its going to be a little harsh too. I have a number of reasons for leaving Morehouse, and I don't exactly have a format I'm following exactly. I can get this out of the way now: I'm not leaving because of the money. Money is a minor issue for me, whether I have it or not. Morehouse costs about twice as much as Clark Atlanta, and I like the price drop but that's a minor issue. In this recession (depression?) anything over the price of five grand is its own fortune, and do I have the money to really go to any college right now? No. Still, I'll find a way. Just tossing that out there.

The title of this is "Why I'm Leaving Morehouse and its Vampire Effect" because the biggest reason I'm leaving this school is because it is sucking away my passion to learn. That's a drastic thing to say, I know but I wouldn't have said such a thing unless I had reason. Last year I went through the motions of the school: core classes, Hump Wednesday, Crown Forum (never understood the necessity behind it), Olive Branch, the whole nine yards. I tried to make this place great for me. It didn't work out.

My passion lies in writing, be that a story or a poem, a sonnet (pronounced saan-et with two stressed syllables) or an essay. Do you understand, loyal reader, what destroys my passion for writing? Nothing. The deaths in my family haven't stopped me. Severe money issues haven't stopped me. I didn't even use those for inspiration. However, as I was sitting in my room last year, happy that my roommate was away for the weekend and happy that I could walk around naked for a while, I was sitting on the floor typing something (clothed, you for your information) and noticed that this was the first real writing I had done that year. Let me stress that: I WAS IN A TRANCE! I don't go into writing trances like I used to back at home but this trance was so strong that when my roommate got back I didn't realize that he was there for about two hours. THAT is real writing.

What I've come to appreciate and understand recently is that this trance only comes about when I am in full sponge mode. Full sponge mode is when you want to learn and absorb and you do so big time. At one time that and my learning mode were completely in sync, and as such my writing was virtually flawless. When I got to Morehouse that passion slowly started to fall. My passion for learning started to dwindle as soon as I noticed how this school worked. This will be broken down in the following paragraphs, but the structure interrupted my writing spirit and my will to learn was broken when I saw what I still think are Morehouse's true intentions.

I call this the "Vampire Effect" because my passion is slowly sucked away, as is my persona, until I am just like them: vampires. Don't expect me to send my kids to Morehouse... unless they love money. That leads me into the focus of the school and its true intentions. Morehouse is a business first and a school second (third if you count false beacon of hope as the second). Quoting a good friend and family member of mine, "Morehouse claims to promote black pride and a way for many blacks to escape becoming another negative statistic but they are only really promoting debt in the black community." What keeps a college going? Money. What do the students ultimately provide? Money. Why is tuition so high? The economy, which is directly comparable to money. I'm not statistical expert but I'm sure most of the graduates of the school aren't exactly millionaires are big time successes. Hell, even some of the biggest success stories from Morehouse are famous for things not related to Morehouse in the least. Examples:

Martin Luther King, Jr.: civil rights leader. Graduated from Morehouse is a piss poor GPA.

Spike Lee: famed film maker. Graduated from Morehouse but took all his classes over at Clark Atlanta.

Bill Nunn: famous actor. Graduat... huh? What do you mean you don't remember him?!

Let's just keep in mind that the most respected, at least a good number of them, graduates of Morehouse either did extraordinary things outside of it or did something that bore no relevance to it whatsoever. This is ultimately not a factor in my dislike for Morehouse but I do consider it interesting. Those that do contribute back to the school are usually brainwashed. Wait, stop, before you berate me and get on my case for my use of words let me explain what I think Morehouse does. I believe Morehouse fill a student's brain with delusions of grandeur and success and then sends them off into the world, the business world usually (I will get to that later) in an effort to BRING MONEY BACK TO THE DAMN SCHOOL!

*TANGENT: How ironic is it that I'm writing this particular note and letter at Morehouse? LMFAO!*

That's how businesses do. College is an "investment", right? The college takes their money, fills their head with ideas they'll forget in the long run (brotherhood and community service are some prominent examples) and the brainwashed students become corporate lackeys doomed to send money back to the school. The school then uses this money to buy new lights for the campus. NEW LIGHTS! What the fuck was wrong with the old ones? No, sorry, I didn't mean to get so vulgar, forgive me. I just think that money could have gone to a better use, like a scholarship for a lucky student. Or some new food. Or just basic repairs that NEED to be repaired, like the air conditioner in my damn building!

I said I would get to it later and now I am. What are 85 to 90 percent of the students here majoring in? Business. What are five to ten percent majoring in? A science. Correct me if I'm wrong, which I probably am not, but don't you major in a liberal art in a liberal art college? Am I knocking those majoring in business or science? No, I think they're necessary. However, the business majors piss me off because I see their motivation. They can lie and say that they care about the school but they really care about that almighty dollar. Before I go off into a tirade about them I want to tip my hat to those that want to go back to their home countries (like Jamaica and Trinidad) and help them out financially. I won't go into a story I heard but three students were doing the best they could so that they could go back home and build up their countries. Americans like us, we don't give a shit about our country like that. I tip my hat to them... when I have a hat on. Now, in my tirade, those that worship the almighty dollar are those that lose their sense of brotherhood first. In school its all, "I GOT MY BROTHER'S BACK!" but as soon as that diploma gets in their hand its, "MOVE NIGGA, I'M TRYING TO GET PAID!"

Compare it to a lyric from Mos Def in the Black Star track "Thieves in the Night". The line was, "Get yours first, them other niggas secondary/That type of illin' that be fillin' up the cemetery". Sound familiar? Are these folk here doing the same thing that the "niggas" considering the others "secondary" are doing on a more corporate level? I don't think you should stress brotherhood so much when the business you're going into is so cut throat. I'm not saying brotherhood isn't important, but when you only spend the opening week of freshman year stressing it then what do you consider it on a scale of one to ten in importance? I say 6. That's not high enough for an all male establishment such as this one.

Besides that, the school wants the money, hence the business majors, and they structure the school's curriculum to such a thing. I am an English major, at least until I get to Clark and change that to Mass Media Arts. EVERY major is geared towards at least some kind of business career, namely in the class I'm taking now every morning on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. This class is Professional Communication. Me, aspiring to be a writer, have a vague but oddly strong knowledge of communicating, so I don't consider the class unnecessary but I do see it as out of place for an English major... and a Chemistry major... and a Biology major... and a Music major. Do you see where I'm going with this? Professional Communication is all about communicating with business folk about business shit at a business job, and I have no intention of doing such a thing. Granted, considering my desired profession I might have to speak to some business people, but are we doing business talk in my category? No, we are not, making the class less than necessary but still kind of useful to others. I'm tired of people trying to justify this.

Even the advisers are a little screwy. What do you mean by screwy, DiZ, you erotic caramel cupcake you? This is what I mean. The advisers for any major outside of business or economics are hardly advisers. That's taking nothing away from them, but they're teachers first and then advisers. Business advisers are teachers and advisers in sync with each other; because they ARE business men and they know exactly what the students want: MONEY. Me, I'm an English major. I want to write. No offense to my adviser (a great guy mind you, very cool, one of my teacher right now even) but what does he know about film? That's another one of the reasons I'm hitting up Clark: film studies.

But back to the theme of structure, I noticed a more rigid structure this year that couldn't have been helped. By helped I mean, I couldn't have acclimated myself to it in time. The school requires 120 hours of credit to graduate, meaning a minimum of 30 a year, 15 a semester. I didn't understand how cruel this was until I noticed that the way the classes are set up you have to take classes in a certain order, making any sort of freedom impossible before senior year if and only if you follow the structure. That eliminates some of the freedom of college that is so beautifully talked about. Morehouse doesn't have this, not really.

Okay, that's enough of my more macro rants. I need to concentrate my personal internal beefs a little and I can bring them into two: feeling like a statistic and proximity to Spelman, not physical but feelingly. In terms of statistics, I hate this school because I feel too much like a statistic. I don't expect to feel like a total individual, halfway due to the "brotherhood" stressed during NSO, but I expect to have a level of personal closeness to the school's faculty or whatever you call them. Closeness is a synonym to extended family ties in this case. I spoke to the president last year once, the freshman dean once last year, the UNCF person on several occasions and sometimes the teachers. I only felt like the people cared when I spoke to the president, the dean and one of my teachers. Everyone else heard me but they didn't listen. I do thank some of my teachers though because I do plan on keeping them close as I grow, namely my English teachers, but that's just a tangent. Speaking of which...

*TANGENT #2: About ten minutes ago, about 2:08 pm, I got the paper signed. Clark, here I probably come!*

Topic at hand: statistics. My greatest fear in going to such a "prestigious school" was that I would leave and that would be that. To quote another rapper, Fatlip, "You know the routine/When you winning they grinning/All up in your face like they was with you from the beginning/But on the flip side/When you washed up like a riptide/Fools clown 'bout how you slipped and let shit slide". Graduates, 98 percent of them, must fit this role. I don't expect a school to know everybody that leaves the institution by name but I do expect a level of sentience and appreciation. If you aren't a famous graduate or the son of one then you aren't anyone special. If you contribute a fat check to the college after you leave then sure, then they care. Say you don't though. You're nobody. So if you're winning, Morehouse is grinning. When you're washed up like a riptide, Morehouse talks about how you slipped and let shit slide.

I can talk about that all day but I'd eventually go into a circle. Last thing I'm going to talk about at length is Spelman. DiZ, are you gay? No, I am not. I love women and as such I have something of a lust (love nothing, it's a dick thing) for a majority of Spelman's student population (a love for some, I won't lie, some of them are cool as hell, truly wife material) but Morehouse and Spelman are a little too close. What do I mean by close? Proximity is one thing because they're right next door but I have nothing against that (it was one of my motivations for coming here at first) but the relationship between the schools is a bit... for lack of a better term, fucked up. My love for Spelman is about as great as my love for Morehouse (the AUC in general, but I think Clark is the best of the three major schools) but that Morehouse brother/Spelman sister thing, Olive Branch, it's a bit much. There's no natural bonding between the men of Morehouse and the women of Spelman. My Spelman sister, haven't spoken to her in at least a month. Olive Branch, it was pointless. Besides that, the gate surrounding the school is almost like a magnet. I'm not getting into that because that's another note in itself (The Dastardly DiZ presents: The Bourgeois Bitches of Spelman College (Bitches Ain't Shit Gaiden)) but if you want to know why so many women over there have funded abortions, pregnancies and sexual assaults then look towards the gates and rubber bullets and realize that men love obstacles. It makes the hunt that much more fun.

I want to go back to that quote from my cousin. "Morehouse claims to promote black pride and a way for many blacks to escape becoming another negative statistic but they are only really promoting debt in the black community." He transferred last semester to a school closer to the state we call home, Virginia, and he's doing fantastic. He made a brilliant point too. Do I agree entirely? No, but I agree to a high degree. I want to meet the guy that said going to Morehouse was a clear path to success. Oh, I WILL be successful, but not with the help of this college. In fact, several people from this school WILL be successful.

I need to make something clear: I'm not calling Morehouse a bad school. Business majors with dollar signs where their hearts and souls should be fit in well. Me, my goals are drastically different. I just want to write and get people to reach their best. I can sum it up in a quote from a commercial that I slightly edited. Here it is:

"Christopher Eugene Lamb is one of the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the trouble-makers, the round pegs in the square holes. I'm one of those who sees things differently, who isn't fond of the rules and has no respect for the status-quo. You can quote me or disagree with me, glorify me or vilify me, but you can't ignore me. That's because I change things; I propel the human race forward. Not crazy; a genius changing the world..."

That's from an Apple commercial with slight edits. Thank you Steve Jobs. I don't respect the status quo because the status quo of this school is making money. I don't like the rules because they restrain and keep creativity down. That's the kind of place Morehouse is, at least from my point of view. I'm not trying to be overly mean, but shit man, look what I have to work with! I think Clark and Morehouse should have each others' auras right now, but as such Clark is just so much more appealing to me at this juncture and I don't think I'll be disappointed. If I am then I'll just jump ship again. I won't have my college experience ruined by college itself.

That's about all I have to say. Thank you for taking the time to read my stuff, loyal reader. DiZ the Debonair Daredevil signing out. Peace...

Bedroom Epiphanies: Twisted Reality

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Won't you be my neighbor? No? Well fuck you then, bitch, I'll find a better neighbor somewhere down the line anyway, shit! Welcome to 1150 Writers Block, the house with more literary goodness and essentials than everything else you'll ever read. Why? Because I said so, and because I, being a good ass writer and the coolest asshole you'll ever associate yourself with, know how to detail problems out in a very calm, collected and in-your-face manner. That's why this is going to last. Today's topic...

It Doesn't Exist... Unless It's On Paper...

For me, writing is a chore and a passion beyond anything else I hold dear in this world. Why? That question reminds me of why I write entirely. At one point I nearly lost my passion for writing. I remember that pen and pad I had a long time ago when I was young (I'm not a kid anymore) and how I used it to box out my mother and father arguing. I remember how I used to use it to deal with my loved ones passing. Writing helped me and still does when I feel homeless, and especially now when I'm broke, my writing is a beacon of hope when I'm nearly hopeless. My writing is as essential to me as the rain; it takes away my pain and I never had to ask myself why I write again.

There is always this nagging, aching feeling deep in my heart though, the biggest problem I have with writing because I double up my jobs: I'm a writer second, a dreamer first. The funny thing about dreamers is that reality, life in general, becomes a chore, something you don't even look forward to anymore unless you do something to make it worthwhile and brand new everyday. That's my problem. Monotony has always been a problem for me because I can't stand doing the same thing again and again unless its of my own accord. Going to class day in and day out, eating the same food day in and day out, saying the same lines to the same females in the same tone, again and again, it's the same old routine. Why do you think so many writers die young, commit suicide? Can't repeat it.

I'm not suicidal though, was at one point (funny story if you want to hear it) but no longer. As a matter of fact I'm a little homicidal. The best moments of my existence come from when I do something brand new. I rode a roller coaster. Didn't like it and I won't do it again anytime soon. I stared down the barrel of a gun. Exciting and even pants wetting, but I will never do that again. I argued with the female version of myself (partly distracted; she has a nice chest, a cute little ass, cute face... probably taken though) to a self inflicted defeat because I didn't feel like mixing my logic with her rationale. That was fun. I'll do it again if I see her, and only half of that promise is due to her physical stature. It was a new experience, like waking up to snow on Christmas morning, playing Street Fighter 2 on an old arcade machine, or ditching your church group in New Orleans to sneak into a casino or look for Bourbon Street (funny story about some beads and a friendly saleswoman in her early 20s). For me, life is all about new experiences.

And what happens when those new experiences end? You're only assured X+2 events that are new and incredible. X is the number of years you live. You only turn the age you are once. One of the events is birth and the other is death. So, if you live to be 83 then you are assured 85 new experiences. But one experience a year is not enough for someone like me. That's why I dream. Dreams are impossible things, events that go from the mundane to the spectacular and everywhere in between with no restrictions other than the hours a person can stay in tune with the false reality called REM sleep.

What's scary about writers that double as dreamers is something known as a "Chimera Sky" (patent pending) which is synonymous with the phrase "dream high". When this happens a writer is thrown into a trance and dreaming takes on a sentience that can't be described or verified like it needs to be. It varies from writer/dreamer to writer/dreamer and it always turns out different every time. Being the writer/dreamer that I am I often see pop art relating to my situations in the same vein as Kanye West's Good Life or Kid Cudi's Day 'n' Nite. They're never the same either.

"Chimera Skies" are unpredictable. They take place in the most unexpected times and they can happen while a person is wide awake, like I am now. I'm talking to a tiny wolf creature with three black wings and a unicorn horn. He's speaking in Hebrew and writing a letter in Aramaic using a pen that's in his mouth. What's this mean? Sadly I won't know until I wake up after I fall asleep next. As twisted as my state of mind is I have never seen anything like this. It adds to the new experiences though. I'm sure I saw an angel one night long ago, pointing downward in an effort to tell me I was going to Hell. My response was a nod and going right back to sleep. I read Edgar Allen Poe's The Cask of Amontillado and couldn't sleep for about three years because the imagery scared me out of my shit. New experiences.

But therein lies the discrepancies. Life, our great gift from God, isn't full of new experiences. So where does that leave writer/dreamers like me? I always seek something new so I dream. I dream and deal with the terrible reality that half of what I dream, and in essence half of what I write, will never be real. Dreams are like fuel for the space shuttle that is my literary talent. My favorite story of mine thus far is the story of Lawrence Callier, a wandering delinquent that seeks a woman of myth who only dances and grants the wish of the man or woman that can be a suitable dance partner. This came to me in a song and in a dream, in that order. That little synopsis alone reveals about three or four of the references the story makes. Callier is the last name of the singer that did the song Dancing Girl, which I interpreted wrong at first making way for my particular dancing girl, who was a wandering delinquent herself. Writer/dreamers, we're a common breed. Those of us that talk about it are rare.

Depression sets in when reality does. Take my hand, if you can imagine my hand in front of you. Take it. Christopher Eugene Lamb is a grim character that doesn't try to hide it. He's happy and jolly and with good reason, but he's always dealing with terrible sorrow. His dreams will never really be realized because he dreams out of this world. Werewolves and seven mile long whales are pipe dreams, daydreams worthy of the bastard child mental capacity of Daniel Dumile and Wasalu Muhammad Jaco, but never reality.

So I understand why so many writers shoot themselves, though I disagree with the notion. How do you deal with knowing that your wildest dreams will always just be wild dreams? I'm not sure I can really answer that question. There's always been that voice in the back of my mind, that little voice saying, "This is the price you pay for this passion, and everything that I write is just a testament to it." The real question, that question I can answer, at least for myself, is, "Is it worth it?"

Shit, I'd be crazy to say that it wasn't. As much as I would love to say that it is a perfect campaign it isn't. We all die for what we believe in, and I believe in writing, and every time I write something my blood goes onto the paper or the keyboard. Call it a slow voluntary death, putting my talents to the best use possible. I'm not rambling or losing focus, but I am losing my chimera sky, I can't lie. Depression has no place in the high, and dreaming has no place in reality. However, when you combine the two as someone like me does then you have a constant conflict that won't end in this lifetime. What do I do? I endure, as do many writers. If you know what I'm coming from then be my guest and drop a comment or something, tell me how you feel about the situation, share a story, but don't just say, "I agree 100%" or some shit like "It's too long". Hmm, "it's too long", eh? There's the topic for the next room: Room of Broken Expectation. Thank you.

Another new blog from Christopher Lamb...

I think I've lost count. Just how many blogs have I started and left behind at this point? Ten? Twenty? People like me don't keep clear records. I'm just a vagabond, a bohemian, a listless wanderer with only one goal in life: to live. I find it strange how little people actually live; some folks can live to be 110 years old and while a majority of these people have actually lived there's no telling how many haven't. I mean, what would my life be like were I settled in a spot and just ceased to live, not in death but in, say, normality?

If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a writer, a damn good one at that. All I try to do is put down my thoughts and I can do it well. That's what this (hopefully permanent) blog is for. If you've ever seen a Christopher Lamb blog then this one will be no different. The only major difference is the theme. 1150 Writers Block is my mental address and I'm always there. Every now and then I write a letter to my public, or whatever. If you happen to read on then enjoy. This is me.

By the way, my name is DiZ...