August 16th, 2013
Story originally written and experienced: August 8th 2013
I love romantic shit.
But sometimes I ruin it…
Like the time I did this:
The other day I was commuting home from a long day of work, purposely pit-stopping to purchase a few cookies and a little milk along the way.
But only because
I never buy the damn combo.
And today it just sounded so damn good.
Once I was fresh with purchases and breaching the steps of my abode, I reached the front door
retrieved the key to my lair, stuck it >> in the door and turned
it just the right amount.
And then I saw it right away.
A small, white piece of paper. Lazily sitting on the steps. Only
when the door opened. And when the door closed.
My hands were currently filled with snacks. But my curiosity had full confidence in my juggling capabilities, and compelled me to pick up the mysterious paper in spite of my freeless hands. And then I read it. And it said this:
(P.S. Hello cookie)
Any normal human would be like “lolol that’s real nice.”
Walk the fuck away. Eat cookies. And never think about the damn thing again.
And then you encounter people like…me. Who rather, snap pictures of the spontaneous nonsense and concoct absurd stories about them for no goddamn reason.
None at all.
And it all started when I read the poem.
And I read it again.
And eventually the poem almost started sounding like…a conversation.
Like you’re strolling around the work place simply looking to borrow some fuckin office supplies from a co-worker
When suddenly you approach your co-worker and she goes a little rogue after you say…
“Hey Judy! Mind if I grab your stapler for a hot sec?”
And her response goes.
“…The hot, dense breeze on the back of your neck, Olive”
And you get self-conscious like:
“Like your lover’s breath” she continues
And you’re like:
“Moist with love after bed?” she inquires.
“An ambulance’s sirens stimulating”
“For some youngster they only hear lights and sounds”
“To someone else the reminder of a car crash”
“Crepuscular rays peering”
“From behind an anvil, dark”
“On the bottom but blindingly bright on top.”
And then I got to thinking again and then suddenly I was started to wonder what this shit would sound like if I recruited the talented insights of dear friend, Lil’ Wayne. And he said
So with the help of my old-time amigo Young Weezy and an online Ebonic’s translator to assist me with these authentic recommendations. We were able to come up with the following remix:
The hot, dense breeze on the back of your neck
Yo da hot, dense breeze on da back o’ yo’ neck and git Sheniquah’s ass back ova’ heeah.
Like your lover’s breath
Yo like yo’ lovers breaf an don’t make me pull mah gat!
Moist with love after bed.
Yo moist wif love afta bed Jus’ like Orenthawl James.
An ambulance’s sirens stimulating
Yo an ambalance’s sirens bein all loud and I wanna slap that motha fucka.
For some youngster they only hear lights and sounds
Yo fo’ some youngster dey only hear lights an’ sounds Don’ make me come ova there bitch.
To someone else the reminder of a car crash
I fuxed up ya car. NEVA FA-GET.
Crespuscular rays peering
Keep starin BITCH.
From behind an anvil, dark
There’s a goddamn anvil in tha hood
On the bottom but blindingly bright on top.
You bright as shit.
And finally I read it a 3rd damn time and imagined what it would be like if the author of this poem tried to tell his lover how he felt in person rather than leaving it on the stairs.
But they’re at a rave.
And the recipient of this poetic romance is fucked up and can’t hear shit.
Leading to a slew of misunderstandings like:
And then the recitation of the poem is a massive failure when he tries to profess his love on the dance floor like:
Hey so, the hot, dense breeze on the back of your neck
No no…Like your lover’s breath!
Uh…no I mean like moist with love after bed.
Jesus christ. An Ambulance’s siren stimulating? No? Nothing?
Who’s with Lance Bass gyrating?
What I’m trying to say is, for some youngster they only hear lights and sounds
From behind an anvil, dark
It’s my sincerest hope that this love ballad was able to reach its proper owner. And if said recipient has any translation discrepencies that come along with her first read, I’ll be sure to print out a copy of this full proof guide (and 1/2 a cookie) for her romantic disposal.
Now excuse me while I get on this guy’s level: