Victory of Perserverance


Today my people I write yo you with not a pen of heavy heartedness but a pen weightless of joy. This story ended today but to accuartley paint it’s description, I must start at the beginning. It was a little over 1 month ago when my numb, frozen, fingers clicked over my grades for Fall quarter. To my surprise I discovered that I revieced a “C” instead of a “B” for my life drawing class. Now I don’t claim to be the best drawer in the world or even in that class but due to commuting woes, I was continuously coming in the class late everyday and still banging out all my work in a timely manner. It got to the point where sometimes I’d show up to class 1 hour late but catch up on all my work in 30min and finish the assignment early.

So you can see that when I saw that big, fat, “C” on my report card, I was a little flustered. The whole plan of retaking this class was that I would make a “B” or “A” and that would boost my GPA to a level where I could transfer out of AIA and into GAS and hone my writing talents. Not wanting to take another school related screwing, I began to email my teacher Ms. McGonagle. Email after email I sent her but everyday my inbox would read “no new messages.” Me being somewhat of an optimist (yeah, surprises me too), I began making excuses for her like maybe she didn’t have the funds to pay her internet bill or maybe she was horribly disfigured in an automobile accident and other scenarios of that nature.

With Snowpacalypse fully melted and school back in session, I was finally able to physically track down my missing teacher. And what a glorious event that turned out to be. Mere seconds within entering the main office, BAM! Ms. McGonagle just happens to be walking out as soon as I’m walking in. Time stops and our eyes lock faster than auto-target on Metroid. We made no words but we didn’t need them; I could see her thoughts as clear as day because as soon as she saw me she got this “oh shit” look on her face and in MY mind I was like “YUP, got yo ass, trick.”

There was no doubt about it, hunny was disfigured or had any internet problems, she was just ducking me the entire time. Luckily for me, I caught her slippin. As she rattled off excuses as to why she couldn’t talk to me at that particular moment, we made arrangements to meet later again in the week. Hence now we are in the present day, January 27, 2011; 3:30pm.

I had already gone over my game plan on the subway before hand and created a counter for every scenerio she might throw at me. I arrive at her office but she’s not there. Already my mind begisn to betray me. “Maybe I came too early” I thought. I speak with the receptionist and she gives me the coordinates to the teachers classroom. Thanking the kind lady I walk to the room but “DAMNIT” her door is closed.

All of us reading this at one point of another has been a student and as a student, we can all attest that one of the most dreadful things we can experience next to a classroom introduction is the other side of a closed door while a class is in session. And this wasn’t just any old class, no, this was life drawing. Not only was going to have to endure an army of eyeballs starring me down as I entered but there could be a pair of boobs or bundle of testicles just waiting for me to accidentally bump into. Not wanting to take the chance, I decide to patiently sit outside the room and patiently wait for Ms. McGonagle to exit. And when she did, I would pounce and tear into her like a mighty lion.

Or at least that’s how the plan was supposed to work. A few minutes later a girl walks past and knocks on the door. Instantly I hate her for having more courage than me. Ms. McGonagle comes out and the two have a quick cheery conversation before walking away down the hallway. Because I’m a big bitch, I didn’t even make eye contact with McGonagle. Instead, looking elseware as I didn’t want to awkeardly interrupt their conversation. As they left I began to attack myself. “You bitch! You didn’t even make her notice you. Now who knows how long you’ll have to wait before she returns. They’re probably out somewhere eating cake and laughing at your dumb ass.”

So there I am, sitting for what seems like an eternity and the moment I begin to lose all hope, McGonagle calls my name and the showdown begins. She goes down the list, explaining to me the assignments that I missed and other infractions against my grade. I sit there patiently, calmy side stepping her blows and when it’s my turn to return verbatim, I give her my counter measures for her argument and ask if there is anything I can do to make up the work.

To my surprise, she tells me that if I can get a grade change form from the main office, she’ll bump my “C” to a “B.” Containing my joy, I humbly thank her and run to the main building like a madman and up four flights of stairs to the student resources office. Once there, through gasps of air, I tell the receptionist that I was there to pick up a grade change form. The ladies of the office disgustedly scoffed and told me I had to be a teacher in order to even lay eyes let alone touch a grade change form Annoyed but still optimistic, I said my thank yous and goodbyes and ran down the stairs and back to the other building to relay to McGonagle the bad news. All the while I’m thinking, “Did McGonagle do this on purpose? Was it a set up?” My paranoia was now in full effect.

I make it back to McGonagle and tell her what the receptionists tell me. McGonagle goes on her own mini rant about how absurd the process was and me doing everything I needed to do to stay in her favor hopped right a bored that band wagon and rode it shamelessly. In the end, McGonagle told me to send her an email to remind herself to change my grade and gave me her word that on Tuesday we’d go there together and sign the papers necessary to change my cheap “C” to a ballin “B.”


Anything’s Possible

When ever someone tells you something isn’t possible, look them square in the eye and remind them that Jamaica went to the Olympics with a bobsled team.

The Boy Who Ran

Author’s Note: Not done with this one yet. I just thought about it on the fly while riding the train and it’s still in the rough phase so hopefully I can smooth out some of the inconsistencies soon.


An insolent spoiled child was he.

Taking everything life had to offer for granted.

He never learned the art of appreciation so he never appreciated the love his family gave him

The first chance he got the Boy ran away from home.

And ran hard he did, missing opportunities and breaking hearts along the way.

Many times he stumbled but he refused to stop.

Instead of fixing the problems that anchored him down mentally, he allowed them to drag behind him.

What he didn’t realize was that no matter how fast he ran, the problems would continue to drag him down until at last, he could not move.

Paralyzed by his grief, he had no other choice but to turn around and unhook the anchors.

To his astonishment, his problems had grown so large that they transformed themselves into demons.

From every direction the demons attacked him, ripping his pride to shreads.

What became of the boy I do not know.

He seemed to disappear forever.

Shortly thereafter, a man appeared from out of the blue

Backwards through the boy’s past the man traveled, watering the brdiges the boy left burning along the way.

Until finally, he arived at the boy’s family home

For years the man traveled unrecognized but his family recognized him immediatley.

He was the boy that screamed when he didn’t get his way, the boy that kept his sister in isolation for years, the boy that besmirched his parents at every chance

Here was that same boy who lived deep in the soul of the man now standing

His family hugged him dearly and welcomed him home

Fore their unappreciative child was now morally upstanding.


Why aren’t more couples willing to adopt rather than have their own kids? When I ask people this question, the most common response is that people just want to create their own kids. I can somewhat understand that but only in a selfish view. I’m not sure about other parts of the world but in America we no longer live in a feudal age of Kings and Queens where one’s lineage determines his/her status in life. But my viewpoint is that of a young blood twenty-something with no real ties or family. Maybe when I am or if I ever am in the position of child rearing I will begin to see things differently.

Hello Goodbye

It’s my new found belief that everyone should be welcomed into and out of this world by a song. But not something you hear on the radio. Something unique composed by your parent/guardian as you enter and one composed by the loved ones you touched as you exit. And for those with the stones necessary, include a bonus track by all the hearts you’ve broken along the way.

The Portrait and the Word

Any whore can pull down his trousers and flash his junk but a true gentleman makes his lady understand who he is as a person before he reveals himself. This is why I think writing, in comparison with drawing, is the truer art form. A portrait is instant gratification. Any fool can look at a portrait, say “that’s cool” and pass it by without any care or thought. You can’t simply look at a paragraph and gain satisfaction. You have to read it, every letter of every word of every sentence to have a full understanding of it’s beauty.