I think about you all the time. I don't ever think of you as my best friend. I mean we are not friends. But at one point in my life you were my only friend.
You stole from me. In Oakland and Atlanta. And Atlanta was the worst because I gave you a place to stay.
Do you remember when I told you I was going to Atlanta and you told me I was stupid and I would be back? And then there you are staying with me. In Atlanta.
You broke into my house more than once you stole my gun and then when I noticed it missing you teased me; "did you go to get it trying to impress some girl?"
I totally was. And that's what I hated about you most. You knew me.
Remember the boxing? Man, I swear we boxed like every day for like a year.
I will never forget the first day you came home with those boxing gloves. "You're too weak for the street, Sef" you announced and you put on gloves. I laced you up and as soon as I was done you punched me. That moment taught me everything I ever needed to know about you. And yet, I stayed your friend.
I remember when you made me fight Archie. That was the only time in my life I have ever been knocked out. There is no experience like that of the knees buckling and being forced by your own body to lie down when you have no desire to do so.
I am glad you are gone. I don't inquire about you. I haven't stalked you on FB or Google searched your name. I have no desire to ever know you again.
I forgive you. I am no longer angry. I attribute my toughness to you. And I can't tell the almost killed on a scooter story nor the crack and the shotgun story without mention of you.
I hope you are somewhere living your best life doing the good things.
How are you? How's life? I think about you sometimes. I think I owe you $500.
Being a believer was hard for me. Not hard in the practice was hard or the discipline was hard. Hard in the sense that I am an American, Crazy Pants and if I am going to be a believer I am going to be an American one.
I can keep my head covered with a baseball cap. I can be modest in jeans and a button down. Why must I wear a throbe? By the way, throbes are hot as fuck. And I don't hot like oh he's so sexy going to prayer hot I mean hot like heat. Like why is there so much wool in The Way? Isn't it a desert religion?
I love The Way. I really do. I still read The Quran - I have a version that took all the transliteration out so I can read it without seeing Arabic words. I like that.
I prolly won't ever go back, Crazy Pants. I am so far away from being right. I feel like Hades awaits me and I'm just delaying the inevitable by living. And I don't think The Way can save me.
Plus, fuck throbes. Seriously, The Way needs a serious fashion makeover. Stat.
Take care, Crazy Pants.
Dear Potty Mouth,
Today is your birthday and I am not sure why I remember that but I do and that means that I either still care or I’m just amazing with dates. I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.
I won’t be texting you because your number has long been deleted from my phone. Truth told I could probably text you from memory. I committed it to memory back when we were a thing and now that we’re not a thing the ten digits remain alongside my dead grandmother’s number.
And work’s number. I know work’s number by heart.
The primary reason I won't be texting you is because you don't want that. I am sure the last thing you want on your birthday is a text message from the man that did you bogus AF.
And for the record, I was bogus AF. But you already know that.
I am convince you don't miss me. And I don’t miss you. I don’t think about you regularly. There are a couple of times that you cross my mind. I think about you when I see something in the apartment that you broke that still needs fixing. I think about you when junk mail comes to the house with your name on it. I think about you whenever I find yet another olive oil bottle in the cupboard. You bought a lot of olive oil. It’ll probably take me another two years to use it all.
And of course, there are the moments when someone who doesn’t know that you left asks about you. I think about you then.
And sometimes, when all is quiet and my mind is clear, I miss your laugh. It is really big and really loud and it makes the reason for it that much more funny.
Then I remember the mouth from which that laugh escapes and the feeling passes. I hate your mouth.
So, I won't be contacting you to tell you that I remembered your birthday but like, I remembered your birthday.
Happy Birthday. I hope you are wiser and happier and like forty-three steps closer to forgetting about me.
So I was recently using my sister account to check some stuff out on Facebook - I refuse to have my own account - I happened to see your name and so I was stalking your Facebook page and I see you have a child now and I am kinda got happy for you and started to email you a congratulations email but then I remembered I hate you.
Hate is a strong word. I massively dislike you. I always have.
Which is crazy because we tried again. Which was crazy. Because I love you. I always have. Which is crazy.
I was home recently and Mother still has pictures of you. Which is crazy. Because I destroy all things when relationships are over and I foolishly think that every does the same. I found out that everyone does not.
Do you remember faking like you were sick so I wouldn't go see my friends?
Do you remember calling me from a bathroom stall and telling my your cover was blown and that they were going to kill you and that before you die you wanted me to know you hate it when I wear grey?
And who could ever forget the genital wart fiasco. By the way, you never cleared my name with your parents so fuck you for that too.
Anyway, I am not emailing you. Congratulations on your baby. I hope she grows up beautiful like her momma and smart like her momma and sane...nothing like her momma.
Fuck you! I didn't.
I did not want some. And yet, you chased me down, slammed me up against the wall and gave me some anyway.
You kicked the shit out of me. Literally.
I had never shit myself before. I mean of course as a baby but at the time of the jumping I was ten and shit-pants-less.
I remember walking home slowly and waddling up the stairs and crying because I had gotten beat up and all I wanted to do was change clothes.
But I couldn't because Big Tee was there. Big Tee was desperate to prove to my lesbian mother that he the man that was going to keep her straight so he was like over-man.
Big Tee saw me crying and demanded to know what happened and when I told him he inquired,
"Where these motherfuckers at?" and when I said the school yard, he grabbed my hand and lead me back to the school yard.
You weren't there. Big Tee was not satisfied. With Big Tee leading, I walked around the neighborhood for forty-five minutes looking for you...with shit in my drawls.
The crazy thing is I have never been mad at you. I mean I curse you every time I see my disfigured rib in the mirror but no anger.
Maybe because The Town was rough. Maybe because there's the jumper and the jumpee and I just happened to be the latter. Maybe after spending a total of seventy-nine minutes with my own feces I just don't care about you anymore.
I hope you are still alive. I hope your beating up on others thing didn't become a lifestyle and now you are dead or in jail for it. What I hope most is that your son doesn't ever experience his dad the way I did. It sucked.
Dear Dude I did the Bud Select CrowntownTv thing with that I just saw on an Law & Order rerun: An email never sent
We had a sweet fucking deal. After getting paid $5000 plus hotel, travel and per diem to improvise - that's right improvise - they came back and asked us to do it again for $7000.
Sweet fucking deal.
But you. You signed a pilot deal. You were big time now and so now you wanted $11,000. To improvise.
I get it. I am all about know your worth. I preach get paid. Make money. Fuck being broke. And your The Office but in an ad agency pilot was good. I know you showed it to us. All.
But asking for $11,000 to improvise for an animated web series was too much. Especially knowing the game. Agents talk. As soon as you asked, we all asked and the budget went from $35,000 to $55,000 plus hotel and travel and per diem...to improvise.
And if believe the narrative that we got dropped because the couldn't afford it you're an idiot. The very next Bud Select campaign was Jay-Z and I know damn well he didn't do that shit for $55,000.
We got dropped because you asked for too much to improvise. I am not shitting on improv. Love it. Teach it. But it is the sex of theater. Everyone can do it.
And there are humans of every race, religion, gender, sexual orientation and Creed literally blowing trolls for a chance to improvise and we got offered $7,000 to do it. You take that.
I forgive you. I am no longer angry. Looking back I am glad we didn't do that gig. I was really into partying then and I can only imagine how much blow I would have bought after making $7000 to improvise.
And you taught me something. You taught me we are not alone. Your choice affected four other actors, four agents, a director, an editor and web designer and countless other humans who worked the project. I am always mindful of how my choices in this biz affect more than just me.
I hope you are somewhere living your best life. I hope every know and then you go on YouTube and you search CrowntownTv and you watch a video - Hot Tub is still my favorite and you remember that time you got paid $5000 to improvise.