I’m transcribing my hand-written writing, which was written here in the car at a gas station parking lot, and is being transcribed from the same parking spot, and I have not left my post since I got here. The reason I started to write, was I had an encounter with what I am led to believe was a racist cashier. This belief comes from probably 10 transactions. I drive for a living and I drink coffee arguably for a living, and I like to come to this gas station for convenience and convenience only. Don’t “oooo Nick you’re over-reacting” me, bitch, you wasnt with me when I was shooting at the gym. I’m a fair and fairly honest fellow, and I can honestly say, I have determined the cashier to be a racist old man. With good reason not to like white people, he was a black man, and if you ask any fairly honest man, they’ll tell you it is reasonable, or else you havent asked an honest man. Here is the hand-writing:
Just a quick ‘thanks’ to all of the people who have a hard time with seeing past the skin-color of other people. Thanks to you for making this life interesting. Life is literally a never-ending mother-fucker-of-a-struggle. (Mac- I know that life is a bitch, I just thought she’d take a cab by now.) Never. Ending. I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this bullshit if it wasnt.
If it wasn’t a struggle, I’d be home right now, writing and making music.
If it wasn’t a struggle, I’d not be sitting parked at this Wawa gas station across Hillsborough from the casino with a coffee, waiting for a couple friends I just dropped off to have their fun, so I can insure they have a safe ride home.
If it wasn’t a struggle, I’d have already made enough music at home today, I’d be parked across Hillsborough, and I’d be inside the casino drinking casino-coffee served by a chick around my age who might wanna get my digits, I’d be gambling, telling jokes and laughing all of my boners off without any care in the world.
If it wasn’t a struggle I’d have brought the bookbag with me that I never leave anywhere and then I’d have grabbed the $7 cash that’s wadded in the top pocket and turned it into $50 by throwing it in the gas tank and driving around some drunk hoes, I wouldn’t have cared about the cashier, I’d-a had shit to do. I still would have posted an Instagram story about it but then I would most likely have went about my life and swept this under the rug with the rest of the shit, who knows what…
If it WASN’T a struggle, I wouldn’t have ever had to come here to write this. I wouldn’t have had to pay an absurd amount of money to have my own separate media medium to dislodge myself from association from all the bullshitters venting their petty nonsense on free social media, clogging up the stream so that us good mother fuckers cant put some words in your mouths for a change. I wouldn’t have had to do this, but because the black cashier who took my coffee money definitely doesn’t fucking much care for white people who have my face. Or he just definitely hates all other men, because the lady in front of me must have been a Goddess if you compare the two encounters, except she was black too so it really doesnt help solve much. She was also closer to his age than I. I dont think they were family because I dont think any black people are from West Virginia. That was a joke about incest and also a joke about there not being any incestual black folks from West Virginia. Because I’ve never heard of any is why I say it like that. If you know of any, please correct me. I’ve definitely been wrong before.
Just take my fucking word for it- racism is alive and well. So, thank you, again- all the generations before the last couple. Thank you. Thank you so god damn much for helping me write this.
In other news…
So I was watching a Malcolm X speech today on YouTube, but I never finished it because I had to run. So, I’ll just post it here and you can fill me in on how the last 10 minutes go.
Also, the weed I just smoked to get high enough to feel like writing– let’s just say it was included as driver gratuity. It’s not the first time its happened (only been driving for income for the last few weeks). Will it be the last? No– God-willing, of course.
Same Jamaican passenger who gave me the ganja clued me in on the biggest secret I’ve heard since I learned the Roosevelt family gained its family successive wealth from illegal opium markets– BOB MARLEY’S DAD WAS A FUCKING GRINGO! HE WAS A MIXED KID! (He didnt just blurt that out like I just did, we worked into it, but I don’t have the time or the energy to reconstruct in my mind and write out the conversation. I will say that the conversation started because I was listening to Reggae in the automobile we were all cruising in. His girlfriend was here, too.
Here’s the exact picture the homie showed me while I was driving.
I could not believe this shit and I still can’t 3 hours later. I’m willing to bet I wont believe it tomorrow either– says the guy with no money parked across from the casino.
Serendipity. Serendipity. Serendipity.