Silky Johnson is my hero.
I celebrated my first anniversary of blogging bliss here at Gayle the other day, and since then I've started thinking about what I might want to accomplish during the second year and how I could improve my game. (We're newlyweds, so I still care.) Word on the street is that it's a good idea to have things like goals. So this is my effort.
In the first year, I wanted to reacquaint myself with the blogging world, wade in the water a little bit. If I am speaking hyperbolically--and usually I am--I pulled a Lauryn Hill (except I sold, like, zero albums and made, like, no money) when I quit updating my initial blogging venture. Though I achieved some semblance of the popularity I never got in high school, the whole thing made me feel immensely uncomfortable. Perhaps my disappearing act was akin to quitting the team right before the playoffs--and just after a rather stellar first season on varsity--for fear of fumbling at the wrong time. Starting Gayle was like joining the chess club to fill the after school activity void.
I've enjoyed getting acclimated to my new small little corner of the internet. It felt like moving to a new town where no one really knows me. I've gone from city to country, with five miles between me and and the rest of civilization. If I scream, no one will care, no one will hear me. I'm ok with that. Or maybe I've gone from the suburbs to the city, for the blogosphere population is ginormous, and no one, except for the occasional tourist, pays much attention because the streets are too crowded and folks have their own destinations in mind. Whatever the case, it's great to be here. Maybe someone will be inspired by my work and sample me.
The other night, during that half sleep/half awake phase, I dreamed I wrote a "Start a Rumor Monday." I have no idea what I wrote, but I know it was about Barack Obama and that I borrowed the title from a song by 90s girls group Exposé. It was totally weird. But I've been having weird dreams lately. The other night, I dreamed that I had become part-owner of my late great-grandmother's former home. I returned to it only to find that it had become a crackhouse. I spent the rest of the dream chatting it up with Ice-T, coming up with a really gross concoction--that reminded me of that anorexic woman on Intervention--to help this drug addicted prostitute beat her addiction. But I digress.
Anyway, I woke up, and thought about the possibility of resurrecting SARM in some form here on Gayle. I don't want to go backwards, but I feel like those rumors were the best venue for me to hate on the ridiculousness of the world. Folks on planet Earth are a hot ass mess, and the best way I know how to express my irritation is with a little dose of hateration. What the citizens of this world need now is hate, sweet hate. And I think I'm going to give it them--periodically. I'm up for it. I've been jogging, pounding dead cows with my bare hands, eating raw eggs for breakfast. And yesterday, I caught a live chicken.
Stayed tuned. Wrath Wredux Cometh.
Here's a bone (to pick): Lil Wayne is a muthafucka.
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