For all them nights I was contemplating writing shit, but instead let my thoughts run dry under those stalled out heating lamps...well, excuse me as I feel moved even while skipping dues...and while I would love to spend experience on my envisioned endeavors, my eyes ain't emulsifying into any thoughts worth exerting...

And just then.  At four in the morning.  I hear our neighbor on his patio talking about being pissed on.  Sexually speaking and romanticized in only a way a fresh twenty-whatever year old can explain.  Huh.  Alright.  Ok then.

You know when you're grocery shopping and you see something so fucking dumb that you automatically assign a demographic of hatred to it?  Not even in a racial, or sexist way, but in a universally understood bring the shame way?  Like, who buys fat free Hot Cheetos?  Eggs from a vegan-chicken farm?  Instant shrimp ramen?  Filtered asparagus water?  Mountain Dew!  Don't even get me started on Mountain Dew and the smelly fucks that drink it.  Well, I came across some sort of Absolut promo bottle covered in cobalt sequin.  I'm petty and preposterous.  So naturally, I had to rip on it.  Na mean?  Just tryna' exist in the ridiculous.

Sequin-covered Absolut vodka bottle?  We tryna' perfect the starter pack for the "I don't normally do this" basic bitch set?   Maybe $cottsdale cougars that shimmy-ya, shimmy-ya, shimmy-ya aye' away on the bar top to an A$AP track just to let ya know they still got it?   Bougie freshman college chicks losing their virginity for the fortieth time to tha mobb?  The fortieth time is the charm, believe me.  Real love is coming!  Allllll over your sheets.  So cozy, and so extra.  This bottle should come with a free pair of pink Victoria Secret sweatpants, mustache bleaching cream, and a hashtag generating app.  #SequinIsLife #Ke$haNights #ShamefulSheetsSoWut

At this point, I'm just trying to encapsulate my reality into a meme.  "That moment when you're looking to be perfectly content with your own bullshit, but your neighbors' hoes are fucking with your chill self loathing vibe."  You know, some shit like that.  Then proceed to segue into an empty calorie word salad of a monologue about my neighbor.  Typical shit that would come to my mind should you ask me how yesterday went.  Here I go.  Eat up.

Can I please exist in the hours ya'll ain't suppose to be awake?  Can I live?  It's late and your ass won't be getting laid.  Your hopefully above 18 years of age guests are just taking advantage of your patio and booze while unknowingly testing my patience.  Can I be the hero that goes over and kicks down the door, throws a ratchet bitch over the shoulder, calls an Uber, and toss a wasted night into the back of a Prius?  Not just pay for half, but pay for the trip?  With the understanding that I'm coming back inside for that half bowl of Cheetos, loaded bong, and to drink whatever the fuck is in the cabinets?  Slap said Prius on the ass and go "YAH?"  Tally-ho that hoe to Tempe, Uber driver?  Throw a wink and a thumbs up to this poor son of a bitch that lives next to me?  Savage, I know.  Not trying to be captain save-a-bro here, just trying to sleep and export damaged goods.  Just then, the needle to this delirious & heroic track scratched to the sound of piss hitting gravel three floors down.

Wait, did that THOT just piss over the side of a third floor balcony?  Is the pitter-patter that I hear at this moment really piss?  Is it her, or is it him?  Is it my pent up rage looking for wrongs committed by my enemy?  Is this what's really going to influence my writings?  Fuck yes!  To all the above; with a piss-tinted glasses view.  Unfortunately, this changes everything.  I choose to remain unbiased.  After all, we've already determined that this kid on the balcony likes to get pissed on.  Don't want to break up a good thing for the guy no matter how much I despise him.  I mean shit, what's ultimately the difference between myself making sure that cheap fatties get birthday brownies, and pervy neighbors get rained on.  Just a thin stream of assumed responsibility.  For fuck's sake though.  Sound it out for them Rocky.

Sequenced out thuds been acoustically fucking our bedroom wall randomly for a while now.  It sounds like anything from headboards bumping n' grindin' against said bedroom wall - 

Na...mu'fucka's have zero game.

To weights being dropped on the floor -

Na...mu'fucka's too fat to be working out at 4AM.

To a refrigerator door being slammed every five to ten minutes -

...mu'fucka's are fat, drunk and possibly virgins.  This could be it.

Our neighbors been testing our patience for a minute now.  You know that the other day these mu'fuckas had an argument over rent that escalated to the girl that either pisses on the mother fucker, or the side-chick-roommate that coincides with said pissing stories, tossing all her shit out into the walkway?  Now you know.  I passed by that shit on my way to my car in search of my auxiliary cord hoping to blast my obnoxious shit at them.  Turned out that on my way back, I wanted some of their shit.  I was heavily, we'll say seduced, and thought it'd be fun to text my general manager pictures of this heap of shit.  My general manager was on board with the 'Merica clutch that looked like it was full of tampons.  Hey, I was eyeing it too.  I'm a pleaser though and after a few hush-hush texts, ventured out with a loaded wallet to swoop up some bullshit.

It was gone.

What in the actual fuck?  This was in a matter of minutes.  I barely had enough time to fuck off before these freaks roundhouse-kicked their star-spangled tampon holders, Bob Marley artwork, Chinese J's and shoddy IKEA furniture back into their shithole.  I questioned my own sanity.  Surely, these most likely sequin-loving rats couldn't move that quickly given their without a doubt influenced consciousness.  I refuse to believe this piece of reality and now subscribe to the whole Matrix, simulation theory reality.  Fuck you - on my Neo shit.  My GM definitely thinks I was way more fucked up then I led her/him to believe.  Whatevs, androgynous authoritative being!  Witness my P.C. bullshit in an attempt to still talk about shit that I'm not talking about.  Not my problem that there was a glitch in the apartment structure.

Seriously though.  How stupid looking is Sequin anyways? 

"Oh, I ran out of dry macaroni and gold stars, let me just tediously sew thousands of little sparkly circly-hexagons onto this shit so I can still look like a first graders art project." 

Sequin is the most ridiculous fucking thing ever created.  And that says a lot when you take into account your mom.

"Hey, today I just really want to look like a fish in a drag-show."

No matter what, you look like Snooki fucked a glittery iguana.  You feel, like how I imagine it'd feel to scale a fish yourself that you ordered in a nice restaurant not knowing the shit came whole...soulless eye sockets, disappointment and shit technique that leads to you eating a few scales, and all sorts of regrets.  Like, how am I suppose to be up in the club and we dancing to -

- and I don't dare put my hands on your hips cuz' you might zig when I was zaggin'...and now there's sequin all over the dance floor.  Your dress is balding, I'm embarrassed, people slipping n' shit from all the circly-hexagons on the floor, everyone else is wondering why the fuck did you just descale that girl, and you just standing there with some bare-ass hips finally understanding that you are Absolut-ly not the Little Mermaid.  Sorry Ariel, but catch me backing up like...

On a side note, who seriously likes to get pissed on?  Where is the appeal?  Humiliation?  It's not like piss smells good.  Plus it's an uncomfortable temperature, like a lukewarm shower.  Are there freaks out there that prefer a certain type of piss to another?  Has to be.  At least a few.  I bet you there are people that pay others mucho guap to eat platefuls of asparagus before having them rain down on them.  How do I stumble into that gig?  I don't want to say I'd entertain the thought, as I definitely wouldn't just willy nilly piss on someone like my neighbor, but it's intriguing in the same aspect that taking a shot of what's left under the bar top rubber mats for a few crisp Jacksons is.  What's my price when it comes to pissing on someone?  I don't know.  It's out there, but not sure if I care to go down that rabbit hole.

I will say this though.  I rarely piss in the shower out of paranoia that my girlfriend will randomly pop her head in and ask me for advice on her outfit.  The other morning, I was fearless.  I assumed the shower piss stance.  Hands upon my hips with my back arched which I like to think looked something like the embodiment of freedom.  Like plunging down the American flag into some Nazi's eyehole.  Just at that moment, I was taken back to going to movie theatres as a kid.  I smelled buttery popcorn.  At first I thought I was detecting cornflakes, but upon wafting the smell closer toward me, I realized it was buttery popcorn that my piss was reminding me of.  Memories of parents smuggling in soda for our fat asses.  Debates between Rolo's, or white chocolate bars.  Inevitably would end up with those shitty chocolate covered raisins.  Then, you start to pump that liquid gold butter oil concoction all over that bag of popcorn.  The dim lights would lead to wild juvenile fantasies of never leaving the theatre and just hopping in and out of showings.  Seedy wishes of avoiding security and wondering who I could take to the movies next week that would maybe give me a hand job in the upper seating area like cool kids were suppose to experience.  Except I wasn't cool and no one would be willing to do that.  Instead I'm just trying to control my autistic brother through the final half an hour of Pirates of the Caribbean.  I'm feeling all sorts of Namaste just thinking about this.  Inevitably the popcorn, which at that point was on a ratio more like 70% butter and 30% popcorn, would fuck up my stomach and I would pay for it later.  Who the fuck cared though.  It was beautiful times.  Innocent times.

I don't like to get pissed on, by the way.

And just as I finished that final thought about piss, taking a moment to disconnect and reconnect my glass to the patio table, I hear fuckboí moans coming from next door.  This guy is either getting fucked, or masturbating to loud porn.  As opposed to silent porn, like the sulking and ashamed individual he's too stupid not to be.  And your patio door is open.  Come on man.  I swear to God; if I hear a single drop of piss, I'm coming through rioting circa L.A. in 1992 like Rodney King was that drop of piss on your forehead.

On the real though.  Fuck sequin.  Don't approach me with that garbage.  I'm fashionable as fuck, you don't even know.  Like, the extent of my fashion knowledge if I cared enough to share with you, would make you feel like some Bulgarian motel hooker in Juneau, Alaska.  I own three Afghans.  Not talking slaves either.  You'll probably have to Google this part and I'm O.K. with this since it makes me feel C.A.F.  That's Cultured As Fuck, for you fuckboís out there relying on snapbacks and snapchats to look good.  Probably enjoy getting pissed on too, I bet.  Not me, you.  Speaking of!  My snapback game is C.A.F. as fuck too.  That's right.  Cultured, as, fuck, as fuck.  Two times for you lames.  Fuck it.  You know what sequin is?  You want to know what sequin is?

Sequin is that basic bitch shit that whispers into your ear that it's alright to enjoy a Ke$ha song.

Sequin is vodka sodas with limes cuz' I'm definitely rationing my calories for Filibertos.

Sequin is that shit that will get you pregnant on your 34th birthday because you don't have a whole lot of motherly time left.

Sequin is also what you lost your virginity too.  And you no, you weren't happy after.

Sequin is that clearance rack shit that everyone else except for your sorry ass passed up on.

Sequin is I might not have washed my vagina the night before.

Sequin is I might have overly washed my vagina the night before.  I need love.  Love me.

Sequin is that material you can easily wash cum off of with a vodka soda dipped bathroom tissue.  Nice and slick.

Sequin is the flame to basic bitch moths.

Sequin is the filter that ages you twenty-something years and brings out the alcoholic flushed tones.

Sequin is the douchebag popped collared polo of the pussy trade market.

Sequin is life.  If your life is a giant dumpster fire.

Sequin is that tell tale sign of a shit credit score built off Victoria Secret & Hot Topic debt.

Sequin is you telling me that you aight' with itchy sensations.

Sequin is a dusty Walgreens $5.99 bottle of zinfandel.

Sequin is you telling me that you would contemplate wearing UGG's to a funeral.

Sequin is an accessory to all pride reducing crimes past your state's last call hours.

Sequin is cultural appropriation of tunas.

Sequin is you purchasing limited edition bottles of Absolut.

Sequin is you spending the time to write some convoluted shit about sequin, piss, and fuckboí neighbors.

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