So, once again, we here at Mik Awake: Unusually Tired are all high again. Gun smoke, gun smoke. Biggie Smalls for mayor, the rap slayer, the hooker lay-er, the muthafucka say your prayers. Woooo! Hot shit, hot shit! That picture on the left is what happened when I did a search on "High Post 4." If you don't know about this series on this blog, muthafucka, you better ask somebody, baby BABY. Why am I channeling my inner Christopher Wallace right now...?
Anyway, by "we all are high" I mean only me. Mik. See, that's me over there on your right, pretending to sleep. I write the stuff that goes on this blog, because that's what blogs are about. They're about writing in a journal that you know people are going to read. See that picture there. I took that picture with the built-in camera on my Macbook. I wasn't high when I took it, nor asleep. I was bored and decided to beef up my "About Me" section on the site with some slick shit. But now every time I look at that "About Me" section, I contemplate deleting the shitty bio (notice the egregious lack of print publications!) and taking the picture down. I don't know why. I guess in light of all this over-sharing Emily Gould New York Times Magazine bullshit, which, by the way, has managed to piss off every single literary yuppie hipster media person in New York City.
What was I saying? I forget, and I'm too lazy right now to go back and find the stream of thought that started this post in the first place. I guess I was talking about blogs. Blogs are cool. I have a blog.
This is me writing in my blog.
Oh, shit! That gives me a good idea for a blog. How about if you wrote a blog and you called it "The Most Meta- Blog Ever"? And all of the posts were just you, the blogger, blogging about blogging. Like you just kept writing "Here I am, clacking away at my blog. The fan is running. It is Wednesday night at 11pm. I am blogging." You could describe the shit around your desk when you're blogging. In my case, we have a modern-looking black desk lamp, a dry cleaning ticket, a bill from a bar that overcharged me $8 on my debit card. Which reminds me, I need to follow up on that. On the other side of my desk is a set of joke teeth, a stapler, some Liquid Paper, and this brochure from a French lady who, a few months ago, invited me to attend one of her "Naturopathic Methods" sessions for my dry skin. I keep telling myself I'll go one day. But who knows? Maybe.
What was I saying?
Oh, yeah. The blog about blogging. Yeah, someone definitely needs to run with that idea...Catch, Internet! I've just thrown you a goldmine. Muhahahaha!
I don't know why I just laughed like that. It's probably because I'm really stoned right now. On a wet Wednesday night. No Homo.
I've been saying that a lot lately. "No Homo," I mean. I'm fascinated by the whole "No Homo" thing in hip-hop. Everyone's gut reaction is to think that it's just your everyday average hip-hop homophobia, but I think the exact opposite. Think about the circumstances during which you're supposed to say "No Homo." You're only supposed to say it if you have a gay thought. It's like the murderer who says "I didn't kill him" before anyone has charged him with a crime. It's like a kid yelling "Not it!" right after he's been tagged. Think about how awkward it would be to bump into a friend on the street and be like, "Hey, man. Long time no see. Do you want to grab a drink? (Beat) No homo." If you said that, your friend would think you were gay.
But in all honesty, what heterosexual man doesn't have the occasional gay thought? Right, fellas. Am I right? Fellas?
Hmm, I wonder if I'll wake up tomorrow morning and delete this. No Homo.
Phew, that was close. I was almost gay for a second. Good thing I said "No homo."
Seriously though: no homo.