2009-11-21 19:18:34 UTC
My Natives
A lot of people wondered why I was so reluctant to write a book. I told them that since my life seems to be in the spotlight every minute of the day, reading my actions and seeing my daily happenings wouldn’t be so different from reading it from the tabloid magazines in the drugstore, then having to go to the public library or Barnes & Noble and pay $19.95 for the same thing, just on different style formats right?
But I decided wrong. It just seems like when I sit down from my busy schedule and read the tabloid stories about me, (Star Magazine is the one that I have been keeping my eye on) it seems like the biggest miscalculations in those stories about me is the ignorance. My mamma always told me that ignorance was going to be the supreme enemy of mine during the journey towards finding myself. That no matter how smooth things may go, there is always going to be some type of conflict, and that scared me. But right at that moment I decided that maybe towards that writing of mine, which may be so different then the editors at Star of National Enquire of whatever, I can find myself, I can sort of see things. It seemed strange how I always thought with a sort of sense. A sort of literal sense that tended to not go any deeper than reality would be able to catch it. So that’s why I am here, lonely, with only the sound of the typewriter roaring as I right my thoughts, opinions, and experiences on the whole thing.
I was born in the Reginald Marine Pare Systique, a neighborhood in Pale City, Nabisco, Niabasco. The neighborhood nickname was Remapasy, which is a type of word play like: Reginald Marine Pare Systique. It was a poverty-stricken place. With thugs, and devastated buildings and apartments. Seeing a kid from the city in Remapasy was like seeing a penguin in the desert. It was weird. And they were there scared, wandering. They were thinking that as soon as they entered they were to get shot. As I explained this to ma, she would come up with the conclusion that seemed to be her favorite word of all time: ignorance. Sure, there were, and most likely are still drug dealers in Remapasy. The strange thing is, famous cartels used to use this neighborhood as a home base. A place to think about what evil malignant deed they were to perform next. I would see them from a window in the broken-down military artillery, (which served from 1890-1934 always with their ski masks, and I remember all the rumors about them. That they would cut off victims or non-payer’s fingers off. They would kill them. Burn them. Stuff their heads in Hello Kitty puppet-like figurines. So maybe it only took pure thoughts, to make me have a panic attack at age ten, when one member from La Garrisons, the most notorious drug dealers in Lockame and Niabasco, took a glimpse of me. I was so petrified. Like a teenager who was caught looking at porn in the computer. My legs lost nerve, or at least I felt it that way, because I collapsed, and my last thoughts before doing so, was if I were to wake up in one piece, or considering my luck, full enough to survive.
I remember waking up to the noise of a palette-like plank, with grape juice, a frozen Smuckers Uncrustable, and a cheese stick. A lady in a white mini dress (I thought maybe I was in a brothel). But I realized that I was in a hospital when I tasted the cheese stick and wanted to vomit, I knew I was in the Remapasy Hospital. My parents were worried sick about me. Back in those days, no matter how much you disobeying your parents got you nearly killed, you would still get punished. My momma slapped me when I got home, for giving them such a scare. My dad slapped me too, for disobeying him. I never fully understood why it was so good to have two parents back in the seventies. My father was always telling me to not go into Prince Avenue, since half of the shootings, massacres, and incidents and tragedies and the like take place, but most importantly, La Garrison’s evil plans.
But my friends and I were always doing the opposite of what our parents told us to do. “don’t do this, don’t do that” and the first thing that Shaniqua, Lee, Bob, and Porkbelly Benny and I did was “this” and “that”. But that one day that I was alone in Prince Avenue, I felt brave. I was crossing the most notorious and perilous streets in all of the Remapasy and possibly Niabasco. Prince Avenue was sort of like a piece of Compton that was tossed, and it so happens that it landed in the heart of Remapasy. And I so far as looked at the notorious mob, and I was shocked to see that they had so much things like me. It’s weird how you would never guess somebody’s conservative (or in such case of mine, greedy) beliefs by just looking at them. You see them and you think that they are just like you and me. Same ol’ Lockamese people. Who would dye their hair every New Years Eve and Day, and would dance the Shaki in the beginning of the fall, would follow the rules, go to church, volunteer to strike t