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Damn, I Wish I Was Your Writer

I wish I could be that good. I want to be that bad. I would love to be comfortably evil and willing to drip with the cells of nonchalance.

Give me a chance to see if maybe I can produce the death piece that will memorably rattle the sphere of cohesive reporting.

We are journalists. We expose the ugly and the uglier.

We write about the rapes, the tyranny of racial discord, the sex lives of wrestlers and bimbos, the infamy of politics, the gorgeous felons on the run, the alleged gay CEO and his boy toys, the brutality of the American spirit, the drowned lives still choking on the poison America fed them, Kanye’s almost midlife crisis, Kim’s butt naked selfie, the mix of period blood and semen, TV show recaps that are never done recapping until the next episode, how shitty black women have it, how even shittier black men have it, Fast 8 updates, the woman with the creepy Chewbacca mask, sex without sex, sex with sex, sex with blood, sex with and an audience, sex alone, corporate greed and sex, white guys who fuck us all, white women who get to fuck the world, Mami Wata, Prince and his dead Revolution, Gigi, Kendall, Bella, rape and the superheroes that save the day, rape and the girls who lived to tell their tales, rape and rape and rape, Gawker, Salon, bullshit journalistic pursuits that prove you’re decades too late for the requiem of a dream to be the writer you envisioned.

Damn.

Sunday mornings are lazy ones in my bed as I glaze over the headlines that are riddled with typos and careless mentions.

I try to offer corrections but they stand as they are — proud in the knowledge that the obvious mistakes make no fucking difference.

Anymore.

Not long ago I was caught in a fog of misinformation when a plane went down in the Hudson River. I was relieved to read that the pilot had been heroically pulled out of the wreckage.

That was a lie.

He actually died on impact and was pulled out of the waters a day later.

Damn. You can’t trust anyone anymore. I mean, you can’t trust the media.

I wanted to be your writer. So bad. I envisioned tapping the keys in unison to the reporters in newsrooms that no longer garner my respect.

Y’all are utter shit.

Thank you for the silence and rejection emails. It is now absolutely appreciated.

You never deserved me.

I am writer.

I move to the rhythm of the urgency that overwhelmed me when I ransacked my mom’s stash of newsmagazines and found out that John Lennon had been gunned down by a psycho. The moment Anwar Sadat was assassinated. When Pope John Paul II was shot — I knew church and politics didn’t go together. I thought Leonid Brezhnev was weird looking but his power gripped me though the pages. From what I gathered — Lech Walesa was stuck and I wondered how he would pull free.

See, that’s what I wanted. I was a naive fool to believe that my time would be just as immaculate — with all the integrity and weight that gives this profession the reputation it deserves.

But damn.

Here we are. Words can’t describe the level of filth permeating the walls of recognition that exposes the mechanisms of massaging the right asses — to ensure that droves of faceless and blind pupils guarantee the daily quota.

My mother is a writer and she worked for the Nigerian Television Authority. She spearheaded the Nigerian version of America’s TV Guide.

She spent days and nights toiling to make sure every edition was devoid of fragmented and reckless packaging.

That method of excellence has been banished without a trace because The Kardashians need 24/7 cuddling and the sexual activities of a blond public figure needs to be released for fragile viewing.

Shame on this industry of rot and bile.

I wanted to be a writer.

But damn.

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