It’s starts off with the Apple and the bite that was never supposed to be digested.
Ex-boyfriends never leave anything good behind.
The last one that got me wet and bothered, gifted me a stunner in a White case. We opened it together and out jumped the future.
A decade later, and the virus is incurable. I’m crippled with the disease of worthless consumption in the form of financial ruin.
Paying for defective shit that you will always have to replace until you finally get it right because warranties are tissue paper for asswipes.
In 2019, I may have to fund a goddamn see-through wall that’s supposed to keep shitholes like me, from inflicting criminal harm on the White sovereignty that may kill us.
Speaking of shit, I hope 2019 is just as shitty as 2018 and even shittier than 2017.
Who even cares anymore?
How do we summon the vision of wishing and hoping like the generation that actually believed that decent living with hard work equals healthcare and health clubs; with full platters of mashed potatoes at a table that’s big enough for family feuds and new episodes of The Cosby Show.
Personally, the messiness of not caring whether we live or die because dying isn’t a scary unknown that hijacks cowardly lifers, feels good and proper.
As the stock market nosedives, there’s the fantasy of how we’re all here to piss each other off while jacking each other off at knife point.
Nothing is quite as gorgeous as the reminders of viral sensations who sleepwalk into the million-dollar pay day that can only be granted when you prove how scenic backdrops are more influential with you in it.
Certainly we will see more of those highlights and a lot less of the evidence that proves how indebted we are to the methodical search for the truth; in the midst of the clutter that sums into the supremacy of clicks and scrolls.
Attention seekers are us!
Look at me! Message me! Retweet this! Share that! Repost with captions! Caption this! Survey that! Quote tweet with emoticons that say what’s obvious when that defector said the shit that will destroy him forever and ever!
2019 will hold the promises of how we will continue to dwell in the palace that bedazzles the truth of how very little use we are to ourselves and others.
Nobody can actually make Ye say “Nay!”
We can’t buy the laughs of how we can truly make Tiffany Haddish change her trajectory to match our erratic palettes. We can’t sneeze snot all over the individual pursuits of humans who are too human for their own good.
We hate what we can’t change, and try to change what haters can’t stand so they don’t hate us for like two seconds and then it’s on to the next thing.
Are you like me when it comes to New Year Resolutions?
Damn those life coaches to hell, because I like to make that list and break them.
One by one…
Are those coaches finally getting booted into oblivion after being outed by broke ass believers, who shelled out thousands for the package deals that kept them wrapped up in the dysfunction that began in church.
Your God will never stop forsaking you. Priests will still fuck over and under and into the replicas of Christ without the lightening strike.
Your weekly tithes will glisten the engines of lear jets that carry away the First Lady of your pews to shopping excursions in Dubai; while your master of Christ lays in gold pajamas with arms embracing the choir master with the angelic range.
New Year’s Eve is an economical catastrophe for those who empty bank accounts with the authority of financial deficiency, and how that insecurity can’t be revealed until you grip the toilet stall while the lunchers wait for you.
“Go big or go home” will cnmtinue to dominate the force field that glows with alluring mandates of how our existence is even more frightening than Bandersnatch.
The curse is not that we’re unaware of the wizardry at play. We know exactly what we logged in for and why those handles have to be virally viable.
What exactly are you daring to hope for in 2019 when you know that you won’t be able to stand any updates that register your humanism with traitorous passwords, that are now simplified for forgetfulness.
There’s a better world out there and it’s not achievable in the channels of champagne pops and the best fuck you will have all year.
Just keep the regimen of adverts that offer New Year sales that will rob you of the fat of the holidays. Don’t override the directives of after midnight, that enhance the vision to storm platforms with landscapers for the early morn.
Continue to stalk resorts with lookbooks that will transport your influence to Tahiti with man-made beaches beckoning with wavy smiles.
Write about trends of Black people, pitch the trend of the classics that won’t be proofread or sliced for size and decency.
You are a winner. You’re the best. You are Insta-worthy. You’re the superstar of the web.