My name is Miles, and this is my gallery of words.

If I’m gonna tell a real story, I’m gonna start with my name.
— Kendrick Lamar
Stop Shaming the Shamers

Stop Shaming the Shamers

...Excusez-moi bitches...

A K & K Productions

One hand in the air, if he don’t really care
Middle Finger in the air, if you don’t really care
It’s like that sometimes man ridiculous
Life can be sometimes ridiculous
— "So Appalled"

I feel like the world is spiraling out of control in what could only be described, in my albeit warped sense of shit, as the frantic jerking's of a man that is on the verge of busting a nut.  Anything and everything goes.  No limits to the bullshit that can be generated.  Furious shuffling of cards trying to reach an ace of momentary pleasure.  Only to reach climax and have that terrifying brief moment of remorse for all evils transpired under the veil of being "triggered."   Yeah, that's right.  The next step in social development is the post-nut syndrome.  Looking around at the fucking social mess you left in your wake.  And by wake I mean hand, thigh, impossibly deep toilet seat hinge crevices and the rarely cleaned shadow lands on either side of the toilet if you're a real savage about your masturbatory businesses.  That, is how I view social media coupled with these new age bitches and their falsified bravados.

As a self-proclaimed fat ass, I've got some feelings in regards to gluttony.  In fact, I'll go so far as to say I have a right to critique all muffin tops, neck rolls, and unsavory elbow-chunks.  Not saying I do on the regular - don't mistake me for some asshole trying to hone his dickish craft.  Quite contrary.  I've fought with my own ability to bullshit myself for a long time when it came to weight loss.  I was bullied a few times for it.  Not that often, cuz I'm likable as fuck.  It really only came up when their girls liked me better, or when my Mom got tired of having to buy bigger pants for me every year.  Regardless though, if there is one thing a fat kid is conscious of, besides where the Hostess cupcakes are, is just how fat they are.  It sucks.  It hurts.  It's a painful encroachment upon all other avenues of self-esteem.  It's unforgettable to the point where you can become skinny and will still inevitably be haunted by memories and urges. 

But...sometimes you should feel bad about eating fudge for breakfast and having a banana for lunch trying to play it off like "new meal, new me!"  Sometimes you don't need five fucking coke refills.  Sometimes the excuse of a cheat meal wears dangerously thin when every meal fits that definition.  Sometimes - no, all the time, it's better to just go to the gym rather than waiting for that shipment of your new color coded Adidas workout gear that's still five days out.  It won't make you faster, and don't tell me that your fat ass will sweat less just because it's 65% bamboo woven.  I know from experience.  I know all of this from experience. 

But, no one should really be penalized for calling me fat back then, or trying to urge me to lose weight.  Again, it's dickish and unwarranted, don't get me wrong.  I don't advocate for it; I just also don't support the levels of chastising that would happen today because some asshole decided to be, well, an asshole.  At the end of the day we have a little something that trumps - heh, man that word tastes bad now - the excuses we enable.  It's called free will, and it doesn't taste that much's really more of an acquired taste you grow into by growing out of being a bitch.  I follow a lot of fit people, men and women, on Instagram.  Does it make me feel like shit when I see Dwayne Johnson dead lift a small Escalade full of grade "A" Dan Bilzerian bitches, and I'm in bed hung over, five minutes removed from already giving up on the gym for that day?  Abso-fucking-lutely!  As it should, too.  It should instantly make me regret all ill-advised, weak-willed decisions I've made that day that I know deep down interfere with my ideal version of myself.  Bitch shit, essentially.  You know what I mean.  Not that I'm some pinnacle of health right now by any means.  But I'm better than I use to be.  By a lot actually, and I owe it to motivation brought on by positivity induced by shame of my previous life styles.  That's right, positive shaming.  All things in moderation of course, because éclairs are delicious and self loathing only gets you so much, but negative stimuli should never be declared an ineffective way to move society toward being better.

Shaming is a loaded word that catapults itself ahead in every argument purely off of other peoples desire to not be a horrible mother fucker.  Which is in itself, a noble goal.  Unfortunately life demands adversity to balance itself out.  A net zero is the biggest accomplishment in the battle of positives and negatives.  Some universe-inspired shit I heard on a podcast once.  And fuck it, I'm running with it.  The beautiful aspect of this recent anti-shaming craze is that I believe it sincerely comes from a kind-hearted stream of consciousness.  An idea that left the simple concept of ignoring haters in the dust.  A utopian mathematical algorithm of empowerment that doesn't account for the variable of human ego.  A variable that needs to be prodded and manipulated from time to time.  One that can give alluringly tinted shades of the overly rosy spectrum to those trying to shield their eyes from the gleams of self-imposed bullshit.  A variable that we all embody, no matter how rational we like to find ourselves to be.  An antithesis way of thinking when contrasted with any motivational story we have ever heard past the age of childhood paperbacks that begin and end with sunshine. 

Are I not possibly a hypocrite here? I hate upsetting others.  I try to gauge in my head when what I'm saying is too insensitive...and maybe I'm bad at that.  I say a lot of fucked up shit.  But.  You wouldn't understand my filter unless you peered into my mind.  I have defined principles...not like I'm the scale of justice by any means, but I at least have a finger on the shallow pulse of morality...

...I'm not looking to skip to the back of the book and read the blurb on your insecurities.  If I guess it before I've gotten but a few chapters in, that's one thing.  Won't spoil your ending if you're not willing accept the writing on the walls.  Na, writing on the mirror.  Fading messages we sell to ourselves.  Good ones.  Bad ones.  Fuck does it matter when the medium needs something as fleeting as steam.  If you aren't ready to take heat, then I'm not ready to prod.  I am not cruel.  As quick as I send you to the edge, I'll pull you back up with a smile before throwing shade at myself in the most humble of ways.  Gotta' smooth things over, after all.  Gotta' make things even.  Gotta' smear the mirror for the both of us.  Hopefully we both grow from it.  Hopefully...

Wake up, roll an eighth up
Throw a double finger with a fist
Here at the abyss
I will be your tour guide
It is war time, check your wrist (Ready, kids?)
— RTJ 3

Alright, so where did all of this spawn from?  The Kardashians.  Khloe to be exact.  If you're not familiar with these national treasures; Khloe is the one that use to be the less than seductive sasquatch sis'.  Apparently she went from sweaty linebacker with good hair to fucking up the chemistry of the Cleveland Cavaliers via her genetically / surgically / squat-ically gifted glutes -

Don't get me started on these team-wreckers.  I denied it for a long time.  How could Kardashian pussy really fuck up professional teams?  Then it occurred to me: these athletes are some of the most powerful, disciplined, pain-encompassing individuals around while also being capable of getting 98% of passerby-pussy.  If they succumb like Barkley to the Monstars in Space Jam to Kardashian pussy, what the fuck would happen to me?  My girl netted me the second she sat on my face.  WITH jeans on.  I mean, these bitches have their own emojis.  I just cant.  How impossibly alluring are these fucking modern day sirens?

- leave Tristan Thompson the fuck alone though bitch!  Got money riding on the Cavs winning it all.  I'm just saying.  She left James Harden and all of a sudden his team picks up a tailored made coach in D'Antoni who has a game plan that essentially revolves perfectly around Harden's talents, oh, and every three point sniper in the league signs to surround him too.  I'm just saaaaying.  Kim only fucked up Kris Humphries reputation.  No one's losing sleep over that Hampton's looking five-fingered-fore headed glorified rebounder Kris "I probably own Gucci flip flops" Humphries.  Hell, he's still in the league even.  Khloe has that pent up demented succubus shit though.  The kind of shit that pulls Lamar Odom out of the league and into the dark confines of the Playboy mansion.  Not even the glamorous side.  It was the side with crack rock and trannies.  I'm not hating, I'm just saying.  Then compare Harden choking in the playoffs with her sitting front row, and him now.  Finally, compare Tristan Thompson's numbers and energy before and after.  He went from Rodman-lite to people relying on the solo-dolo ACL'd corpse of Birdman and High Times chief editor Larry Sanders.  I digress.

So naturally, hot-Khloe has her own cliché show now.  The premise is that you should love yourself enough to get revenge against someone who has made you feel terrible, by becoming what they said you weren't.  Essentially, if someone left you because you were fat, Khloe will get a trainer to help you get skinny.  In revenge.  Wut.  Because nothing says "I told you so" like changing yourself to the image that someone wanted you as, am I right?  It's like reverse psychology against fatties. 

Now like everything in life, you can make arguments for both sides.  If it's ultimately better to be healthy, then what does it matter the motif for attaining that?  Aren't we suppose to love ourselves for who we are though?  But what defines us?  Is it the excess weight, flat abs, or self-love?  What if this show is really just woven by the same threads of the women's sexual liberation, where in reality by women being more open sexually, it ultimately benefits the men with even the slightest bit of game.  Yet it's framed in a way of sticking it to the oppressive man.  I'll show him, by sucking that guys dick!  I'll show that asshole who left me by making myself better than I ever was, which I never would have done if we had remained together, which makes for a mute point because he isn't really losing out then...I...brain, hurting.  This is like time traveling between social paradigms that just don't fucking mesh.  I think my nose is bleeding.

The he said, she said of social philosophy is overlapping in the most convoluted of ways.  Isn't this show ultimately self shaming?!  Which is good.  Leads to honest progress.  Yet the shame is being placed elsewhere.  Which is bad.  Maybe.  Depends how things play out in the end after all.  Playing hot potato with the shame & blame game.  It's like chasing the high of being right can overcome anything we could ever possibly be ashamed of.  Placebos for self-progression.  Sugar pills for insecurities.  Kendrick pedigrees, Kardashian preposterousies.

Forewarning:  I know a lot about the Kardashians because my girlfriend has a steady television diet of E!, Bravo and MTV reruns of Jersey Shore and Catfish.  Pepper in some Law and Order based off sleeplessness.  Deep down, I enjoy this shit.  What the fuck else am I suppose to watch when the Suns aren't playing, the Big Bang Theory?  No thanks.  Give me some of those catty and drunk real housewives.  Talk your shit, Bethenny!'s a funny side Kardashian story that I witnessed in one of the episodes- which is fucked in a sense that it's alright to riff on a surname just because of their exposure....but I'm going to do so guilt free because I'm an asshole: When the Brood Mother Kardashian starts to talk about the day Kim is robbed in Paris, she laments on Kim's blackberry alarm going off when she had never set an alarm on it before.  This shittily aimed divine intervention stood out because it happened around the time of the anniversary of Robert Kardashian's death.  Therefore, her phone sounding an alarm before being robbed was a direct message from Papa K to Kim K that shit was about to go down...

...Nigga has supernatural powers.  Can't shoot a text though?  A simple run bitch, run?  An acronym even?  RBR? GTFO?  Can't send one of those urgent status emails to not open the door?  Scratch that, can't blame him for that one - I don't answer those emails either...

...but did he have to be so cryptic?  Even in death, a Kardashian is still trying to be dramatic.  Attention whores beyond belief, and beyond the grave apparently.

Now I know what you're thinking.  Ohhh, so insensitive Miles.  She has children.  She could have died!  You're right.  And that would have been horrible for them, and horrible for my spank bank.  And let's not forget about Yeezus.  But a lot of you were also rolling your eyes when it happened, and now want to play triggered hero.  God forbid I say something unsavory to rack up some laughs.  God strike you down for indulging in those laughs before you come to your guilty senses, perhaps.

Oh, don’t act disgusted! Don’t act disgusted! Half of you are gonna go home and go down on each other tonight, remember? If you’re willing to swallow cum, let’s not make believe that something I said was disgusting!
— George Carlin

George Carlin on comedy censorship, rape, feminism, and swallowing cum.  One of my heroes, folks.

Ridiculous statements while sometimes offensive, can be fucking hilarious when done right.

For example:  People who order hummus are one of four things:  Fat and trying to be healthy, a man on a date trying to appeal to someone who wants to fuck but probably won't put out when they've actually consumed sustenance, a person whom genuinely hates food, or Indian.  Let's dissect just how much of an asshole I am for having written that previous statement by listing all of the hurt feelings.  Call it a track list of soft emotions.

Fat shamer.  Patriarchal and overall sexist because I automatically assumed that the point of grief would fall on a male - essentially, the villain of the power struggle is assumed to be male.  Rightfully so.  Rapist, because I partook in assumptions of whether a party would engage in sex I.E. putting out, yet placed the blame of devilishness upon the gamble of the victim's tummy.  I also hated on people who think differently than I do.  Some people enjoy food.  I enjoy food.  Others don't.  I don't understand that.  Enemies of automatic assumptions.  Indians, shiiiiit.  I mean hey, I'm Caucasian.  Original slave owners.  Dutch, to be exact.  Some original slaves.  I had to make it race related, because we're a society of race relevance.  For good reason too.  We're still talking about hummus guys - persons, sorry, so be chill.  It was a knee jerk reaction that honestly doesn't make sense right now because I'm pretty sure that hummus is a Mediterranean thang...which means I'm not necessarily racist, but fortunately ignorant...oh, how life unravels when you examine a thread, or two...take three and reevaluate before you formulate that misplaced hate...perhaps equate it to the proper formula, with the proper unknowns. 

Because the unknowns are usually the most tumultuous in our minds.  Desire to understand and relate met with the fear of being exposed - conveniently packaged under the guise of shame.  Shame.  Careless byproduct of the ego.  Hurts as much as you allow it too.


[Verse 1]

Inject cortisone, place a blame,

Numb under the guise, load the shame

Careless byproducts of the ego

Pay no mind to your own attention,

Ignore the energy, but mind the fruition,

Consumption of shame a human tradition

Principalities of the mind are dangerous when the imagination craves sovereignty.  Antagonistic structures measured by twice a right angle, but seen 360 in the cartwheel of life.  Somewhere in between the degrees of struggle, we develop nerves.  Strike mine with misunderstandings and find me at my worst.  Please don't let me, be me.

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