I have re-re-re-re acquired enough butter to make
Land o’ Lakes jealous, and while the material gatherings still pale in
comparison to yesterday, the accoutrements of basic adulthood hold little to no meaning
to me. I have developed into a man of very simple tastes; I desire very little
and require even less to be happy. Some decent gear, edible grub, and a place
to call home. As it regards the latter I am still very much concerned with and
preoccupied by my primary goal of closing on a one bedroom condo in Atlanta.
Over the course of the past few years especially I
have rediscovered that I’m at my happiest, best, and most productive when I can
isolate and engage/interact with others at my choosing. Over the course of my
twenties, I fell victim to many a housing crises, to the point where
cohabitation made me its whipping child. While I have no desire to recount the
entirety of the history, most of which has been well documented in and alluded
to in previous posts. In 2006 there was ex-girlfriend number two. Of course as
most young couples do, we fought more frequently than is healthy. After blowing
up at her one day (and I mean really going off in a way in which few have
seen), she quickly beat me home and did her best Beyoncé, “to the left, to the
left” putting my shit out before I even had a chance to do so myself (which I
had fully intended to do and would have, but before heading back to the crib I happened to go for a long drive
and an even longer chain smoke before I headed back to our shared spot. Then,
in Atlanta, there was the personal misfortune, which befell my best friend, and
at the time roommate; eventually his problem became mine, and there was soon an
eviction notice posted to the door, and I was left bargaining with the leasing
agent more times than I would have liked, which only prolonged my unwelcomed occupancy.
And then, of course, perhaps the most outstanding among my
expulsions was that from mom’s crib, which literally left me out on the street
and between homeless shelters (again, this is well-documented in previous
posts, and the point of this one is not to rehash old drama or reopen old
wounds- that said, I won’t be regaling you with details any more than I already
have.
Which brings me back to this overarching goal of
being the proprietor of my own property. Here I am reminded of the cult classic
movie Baby Boy, when Ving Rhames (I forgot his character’s name and am too lazy
to IMDB it) is speaking to his um, illegitimate, ne’er to do well stepson Jody, played by Tyrese (word around the campfire says the director, John Singleton, had the late Tupac Shakur, pegged for that role, by the way) if
you will, and says the following:
“You know the problem with you little niggas, you
think you know everything about the damn world, but you don’t know shit. I see
you got yourself a little business going well that’s good, that’s good. You
make that paper, but when you making paper, you gotta learn some rules to go
wit’ it .You gotta learn the difference between guns and butter. There’s two types
of niggas in the world the niggas with guns and
niggas with butter. Now what is
the guns; the guns that’s the real estate, that’s stocks and bonds, that’s
artwork, you know shit that appreciates with value. What’s the butter? Cars,
clothes, jewelry all
that other bullshit that don’t mean shit after you buy it. That’s what it’s all about, guns and butter,
baby! Little dumb muthafucka.”
Instead of continuing to recycle and churn butter it’s
high time for me to acquire some figurative guns. While I did invest in some
artwork years back, I ended up giving it the the homegirl Tiffany, as it’s
never really been my thing (and I was disappointed with the amazing artist’s
half-assed effort, but that’s neither here nor there).
But back to the butter for a second, which rapper
Nas once described with the following line: “Fuck the cash the ice, Ferraris with
220 (MPH) on the dash, when your life ain’t right.” And the choir says Amen!
Cars. Check. On number three. Clothes. Been had the fly
suits (which I never wore and no longer have, of course as they were purged during manic instability). Jewelry. I used to
keep a nice pair of solitaire studs in each ear, and a very modest gold chain
around the neck (I also ended up giving the jewelry away, but again, that’s really
neither here nor there.). Bullshit. Had, and have reacquired some of it (e.g.,
the newly copped Playstation four)
I have zero attachment to any of the butter. It
comes with hard work, goes easily, and comes back even more easily granted you
are willing and able to put in the necessary grind for it. Back to the “guns”
though. In my 31 years, I have never owned property of my own. This bothers me.
Call me an extreme introvert with loner tendencies,
but I hit on all cylinders when I am afforded to the opportunity to be
hermetic. I enjoy cocooning if you will, being alone, and practicing
self-mastery. Prime example. When I did I have 1000 square feet to myself in
Atlanta, though it was only for a few months I used that time to quit smoking
(something I only dreamed of prior to actually doing it), get in the best shape
of my life (173 lbs with 11% body fat—yes I get kinda obsessive with these
sorts of endeavors), and go a blogging tear. Though my time was limited since I
knew the funds would expire soon, I wondered what would happen had I been afforded
to opportunity to be recluse at will and for an extended period of time. Socializing, or at least forced socialization slows me down. One thing I remember my mother telling her frustrated son (that would be me) growing up was "Chris, not everybody is like you," pointing to the fact that sometimes others aren't on the same page or plane. To stop and explain certain thought processes and movements of mine often become a bothersome chore and an exercise in futility and frustration on my end.
It has also become obvious that oustiders looking in
own my situation with their obvious concerns and queries, and worse yet, doubt
and discouragement frustrate to me to no end. This is precisely why I really
don’t choose to involve myself with many people, let alone share my dreams with
those who may have nothing to offer towards their achievement.
I know what some may be thinking: “Chris you’re in
massive debt, have atrocious spending habits, make a pittance of a salary
($10.50/hr. for those curious), half of which goes to rent, how are you going
to ever going to procure the means to become a homeowner?” In short, nigga are
you crazy?” Well yes, if you hadn’t pieced it together from the title of the
blog, I am, in the clinical and colloquial sense and have the professional and
personal references that will corroborate this truth. That is just what it is.
Furthermore, please leave the “how’s” up to me, and here I am reminded by great
line by one Curtis Jackson (bka 50 cent). “It’s like I told niggas I’m a
hustler, they keep on forgettin’/ 36 mil’ in eight months, still think I’m
bullshittin (Yes, I will stay quoting rappers when I damn well please J.
While I hardly feel the need to stack 36 M’s, the rougly 50K it would take to
acquire the aforementioned dwelling is a measureable, attainable, realistic,
and time-sensitive goal (this adjectives are derived from the S.M.A.R.T.
acronym by the way- I always forget what the “S” stands for, and alas I’m too
lazy to google).
The plan is in full effect, and for the doubters,
naysayers, inquisitors, and interrogators, I humbly say it’s just a matter of time
(40 is the deadline I have set for myself) and execution. Outsiders may think
they the hand until the cards are on the table. If there’s one thing I do know
how to do, it’s work, and work hard. Chill. Then work ever harder. If it’s a slow, incremental grind towards
a down payment, then so be it. If it’s accelerated by my working smart, a
self-propelled windfall, or a combination of the two, then so be it. It will
be. Some have too it to believe it, whereas I have seen it, and know how to be
it.
And once I have it, aside from my HOA dues, property
tax, and insurance, the rest will be all gravy a they say. A nice, buttery,
gravy.
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