fast times at the racetrac gas station

i love going to the gas station. don't judge me.
i'ma petroleum dishing master. i can stop the pump on 19.99 if i want to.
they always have some hot tamales in the back for me, 'cause they RECOGNIZE ME NOW.
i'm like a celebrity.
an eccentric one who eats hot tamales at 9 am.
and every time i go to the one right by my house, on my way to school, there is a dude posted up tryna sell a cd.
now.
i am not in anyway shape of form tryna knock anybody's hustle.
iii need a hustle my own self, so i can't hate on anyone, broke as i am.
i'm jus'saying though.
you fulfilling the stereotype of err bum-ass nigga that has ever bummed(sorry, i'm really trying not to cuss but you know how that goes...).
how old are you?
28?
and this is your mixtape?
and you say you finna be signed by the end of this year?
how long you been rapping, playa?
oh, word? you gon' blow up big soon?
negro, por favor.
give it up, and turn your application in to a legit job please.
i'm not saying you won't blow up.
'cause then you probably will, and i'll be sitting here wit egg on my face, begging you for sum'n to eat.
it's just not that statistically likely.
after the age of 25 *fake statistics*, the likelihood of you getting a deal is slimmer than j.j. evans. (my diet is succeeding! -4 lbs. down, and...eleventy-billion to go!)
i'm not knocking selling the cds either. i am the proud owner of several passably good mixtapes.
however, i ain't pay for nar' one of them.
i get out of doing so thusly.
dude selling mixtapes--"ay ma, you wanna buy a cd? just $10 for four."
me (looking like butter wouldn't melt in my mouf)--"i'm sorry, i don't have $10."
dsm--"that's aight, sweetie. if you ever want one, i'm up here all the time."
me--"well, i do want one, and it does look really good...if you think you can trust me *smiles sweetly* do you think i can have it and get you your money the next time?"
dsm--"of course, baby girl. here, take it and tell your friends."
every time i see him, i still don't have his ten dollars.
(i really don't, though. my bad, mixtape man. i'ma get you back, one day. in maybe 2011.)
now. another thing.
kids growing up tryna emulate rappers.
i write cyphers sometimes. not as often as i used to since i'm "busy," but i think i'm fairly talented.
however.
i don't have any illusions that my rap career is going to take off.
for one thing, i feel ridiculous when i rap. my voice is not awe-inspiring. i sound insecure as all get out. it's just no bueno.
and while i think it's cool to rap, because it gets you kinda interested in the intricacies of language, nahmean? you might go out and buy a lil pocket sized rhyming dictionary, you try to be lyrical, make a little sense (maybe).
but the likelihood of you blowing up *more fake statistics* siiignificantly low.
even though somebody mighta told you you can be president someday, and now that we have a black president in office, little (black) kids feel like they can reach higher.
but not everybody gets to be president.
and you will probably not be a rap star.
again. not saying you won't. you could be the one in a million.
but while you doodling what your first cover will look like in chemistry, your tail better sit up and pay attention, just in case.
ish happens. life happens.
don't get caught, looking like a fool wit your pants on the ground.

twitter hath usurped my time

i'ma post. i have an addendum to tales from the gym. swear to god.
but follow @mcdevvyd, why don'tcha?

my pearly whites

so i have to wear my retainers nonstop (except for eating) for the next month.
and just like that i am instantly transported back to ninth grade nerdery.
i will not be smiling.
or talking.
for a while.
grr.
i got my braces on in december of 2004.
i got them off in october of 2006 (i can tell you what i was wearing).
i have worn my retainers since then, maybe...a couple few times.
it's a wonder my teef ain't shift.
my mama says the first set was on her, next set on me.
and uh, i ain't got $3k to drop on my mouf.
well, i do.
but that's more for my education and what not.
(speaking of which, i have a scholarship to apply for...)
i'm mildly obsessed with brushing my teeth.
i've been known to sit around for 20 minutes just brushing.
i could go through two or three tubes of colgate (colgate is all i will use, bump that crest, aquafresh ish) just by myself in a month or so.
i own use moufwash though.
how natural does a mouf full of chemicals taste?
think on it.
get back to me.
right. exactly.
anyway.
this will probably help me in my quest on the j.j. evans diet, in any case.

who is mr car

mr. car was a 2002 silver honda civic coupe. he died at my hands, though i was not charged for vehicular manslaughter.
his last words were: "you have GOT to be KIDDING MEEEE."
he is missed dearly.

r.i.p. mr. car. leave a question in his memory.

Who's the most beautiful person you know?

my sister. yes, i'm lame. but she's lovely. even when she's wilding out on me.

you can ask me 21 questions. on second thought...don't.

living for the weekend like the o'jays

so. a whole bunch of stuff popped off this weekend.
all involving african men.
africans like me. for whatever reason. probably because i look like i'm from the motherland.
i used to have a problem with ghanians.
bleh.
friday...i don't even wanna talk about it. titi knows though. involving a diamo--guy from sierra leone.
saturday, the kenyan guy asked me for my number.
i still don't know how to pronounce his name.
and i'm scared to try.
i think he thinks i'm much older though...'cause he works for the department of defense, and was a lawyer in kenya...
and uh, i talked about getting a sugardaddy, but i didn't really mean it...though i don't mind being fed on occasion.
sunday, this nigerian guy i've known for like...two years? who seems to be infatuated with me, who downloaded my pictures to his phone (should i be concerned?), called me from NIIIIIIIGERIA.
hold on.
y'all don't understand.
I AIN'T GOT NO INTERNATIONAL MINUTESSS!
and he's cool and all but uh!
i ain't got no money neither, to feed into yo obsession!
but anyway.
other stuff happened.
i just can't remember (at all, what am i doing, what am i doing...oh yeah, that's right, i'm doing meee) what it was.
besides finding a bomb antonio melani dress and matching taupe heels on sunday that i'm finna rock oh yesss.
anyway. yeah.

What song do you want played at your funeral?

swang on 'em by bun b feat. lupe fiasco. i don't know. it seems fitting.

you can ask me 21 questions. on second thought...don't.

What YouTube video made you laugh recently?

jesus christ bail bonds. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ht9EMjjr5oM
i'm probably going to hell for laughing, huh?

you can ask me 21 questions. on second thought...don't.

tales from the gym

i hate working out.
let me say that, first and foremost.
with a fiery-hot passion.
but i also hate being fat.
so it is off to the gym every tuesday and thursday i go.
i have a weight training class i'm taking from 11 to 12 (11 in the morning, mind y'all. that means for my next and last class, lucky girl that i am, i get to be first hot and sweaty, then cold and sweaty when the air conditioning kicks in. and, since it's a fairly large psychology class, of course i'm sitting ret next to an attractive man. and not just next to him--we are pressed together, thigh to sweaty thigh. *sigh*). i've taken it before at community college, but it is nothing like doing it at uta. i've noticed things.
strange things.
strange people doing these strange things. let me postulate.
for example, there is:

• creepy gym guy--i've never seen him lift nary a weight; walk, trot, gallop, nothing on a tredmill or elliptical; or hit a lick doing anything at all. all he does is sit on various machines with a (dry) towel and his (unused) weight lifting gloves and stare at people. mostly girls. it is disconcerting, to say the least, to get that last rep in on the glute machine and turn around to see him leering at your butt like it is an island in the distance, and he's a drowning man.
• over-achievers--(known in the black male form as Beefitus negro) there is nothing more shame-inducing than (a) being next to somebody on the treadmill running at like 15, on an incline of 47, while here deven goes...at 3. (b) going after somebody on a weight machine, and they have the seat adjusted for their herman munster height, and the weight was on like 250, and i have to jack the seat up to midget status and move the weights to 75. and then to have someone come after you get off, and snort at the puny amount you can do? i 'bout near cried. or (c) being next to someone on the rowing machine--my personal nemesis. i go in to the gym every time saying i'm going to show that durn concept 2 who the boss is, 'cause i paid the cost, thank-you-very-much. and err single time i get off, it essentially tells me, "deven, you are the weakest link, goodbye!"--and they pulling like they really on a boat or sum'n. so i can't look like no punk, right? i mean, i'ma broad, but a pussy i am not, dig? so i gotta pull hard too. and i come away thinking, 'oh yeah, that wasn't too bad.' but i wake up in the morning feeling (not like diddy, i can tell you THAT) like somehow i've become a paraplegic, from the waist up. 'cause my legs work fine, if it wasn't leg day, anyway. i just can't move my arms to save my life. literally. if a bus was hurtling towards me, and the only way i'll be saved is if i can lift my arms above my head...just know that i've already resigned myself to my tragic fate and repented of my many sins.
• the improperly attired--(i really can't talk. every time i wear a dress, it rains. and the last time it snowed, i was wearing a tank top and to'-up jeans) but i see women dressed in the same ish they wore to the club last night. they just have sneakers on now. we talking booty shorts, leggings as pants, sports bras that need retiring, because they ain't supporting nathan (but procreation, rip biggie) and as someone with a chest that's blessed, i just don't understand how you running with them bouncing like that. makes me sore just watching. and then the girls with full faces of makeup on...the point is what? then the dudes...men aren't as bad, maybe just 'cause i don't mind when they slip up and show skin *perv, yes i am* but the other day i saw a guy with a: too-tight ed hardy shirt, sagging skinny jeans, fake jordans (covered in plastic smh, i wasn't close enough to see if the little man was catching a football instead of a basketball, but they were fake, trust), a high top fade colored burnt orange, and to complete the ensemble, a weight belt cinched just so around his robust frame--'cause homie was husky. not a good look. another guy i saw had legs the size of my arms...let that sink in a second...and we talking width, not length. i resolved right then and there to go on a j.j. evans diet. dude had mad nerve to expose them pasty-white toothpick legs like that.

i'm so tempted to go every day, just to see what other foolish people come in, but i think i'd muuuch rather be fat, lazy and happy.

school sorrows

lately, i can't seem to work up the enthusiasm necessary to go to class.
or i'll be in class not paying a lick of attention.
*sigh*
i'm so dang ready to graduate.
did i mention i'm tryna bust up out this popsicle stand by this december?
(though i'll never be able to do it if i don't take my fool butt to class.)
anyway.
i registered for all my classes for the summer and fall last night.
yeah, that's right.
summer classes.
somebody hold me, rub my back, or pat my hand/head softly while i sob.
goodbye, dreams of getting tan (without getting dark. the last time i sat out in the sun was spring break, 2009. a week burned--ha! no pun...heck, pun intended--forever in my memory. i fell asleep by the pool of the place me and the other seniors were vacationing in, and woke up looking like a chocolate drop--bolded for emphasis of how dark i was. being dark doth not suit me, y'all. i am brown, and okay with it. plus, my lips were sunburned, and it looked like i was smoking weed. my lips are naturally pink *conceited* and i looked like i was either a) sucking on a grape popsicle, b) trying out a new plum lipstick that did not suit me at all or c) like somebody had busted me in my mouf. but...what was i saying?).
goodbye, sleeping in.
goodbye, running about dallas scantily clad, because in every community college i've ever been in, they keep it on sub-arctic in the summertime. i'ma have to look something like a polar bear...and then die when i get ready to go.
goodbye, driving around, doing nothing. because you need gas for that. and gas money. and i have none.
but hellooooooo, dart bus.
dallas area rapid transit will be my mode of transportation. luckyyyy me. i get to hobnob with hobos...conversate with crackheads...be assailed by some of the foulest scents the human body (and dirt...lots of dirt) can create.
y'all know you're jealous. i'm the envy of the world. i know.
ah, well.
could be worse.
i could be pregnant!
:D
(@ titilope, who does not read this *cough*, the last time i said this, david said: "so you say." jerk. lol)

deren's foibles

so this might not be funny to y'all.
all two of y'all.
and i don't even think titilope reads this.
*cough*
mention me on twitter or sum'n...dang.
anyway.
but i thought it was.
so my mama was making sauteed chicken last night.
she cooked it, me and deren stole some, and so on.
deren decided to have spinach and mozzarella raviolis with hers.
did not offer me nary a one.
heifer.
so she's boiling the water for the raviolis--it has to be a rolling boil, too much and they'll rupture. they're from costco; i love costco, but i digress--and looking for the chicken, 'cause my mama put it away.
she looks on the stove. the counters. the table. the refrigerator. the pantry. my mama's purse. my mama's plate. under my mama, and under me.
checks the pantry and frigidaire again, then the freezer.
opens the washer and dryer. opens the dishwasher--that we don't even use. (to my father, it puts hair on your chest to wash dishes by hand or sum'n...)
goes and looks under my mama's pillow.
at this point she's frantic.
her water is boiling, and if it goes beyond that rolling boil, her raviolis are fubar.
"ma...where is the chicken?!"
i'm just sitting and laughing and watching.
my mama takes her back to barney days--"please and thank you are the magic words."
"ma. for the love of god. WHERE IS THE CHICKEN--please."
by this time i've noticed that it's in the microwave.
i'm staring at it outright, in hopes that my daft sister will see it.
she goes right to it...and looks in the cupboards above it.
i'm thinking now that she obviously doesn't want any chicken.
my mama tells her to check under the sofa.
this fool does it.
finally she takes pity on her and opens the microwave.
deren look so crushed inside.
'cause by now her raviolis have busted wide open, and they will not be bringing it back any time soon.
but at least she found the chicken.

for her part, she did tell me this joke on monday.

deren: hey deven, how does lady gaga like her steak?

me: rare?

deren: noo.

me: well done?

deren: noo. you want me to tell you?

me: yes, deren.

deren *does bad romance dance*: RAW RAW RAW RAW RAW!

my sister for the win.

laugh politely, y'all.

my neighbors

i've been living in my neighbor hood for at least ten of my seventeen years.
when we lived with my grandma, we were in south oak cliff (that's my hood, put it in your face...*ahem* sorry. forgot myself.)
but my mama did a boondocks and made sure her kids would be soft and took us to the suburbs.
on the left side, is mr. booker. though i thought he was married, my mother and father (read, nosy) informed me that the man may or may not make an excellent fruit salad.
(calling someone gay in the fifties was ten times better than doing a riley--three being final season of boondocks by the way, ohmagawd.)
and on the right...are the crazies.
i've no idea what their last name is. the crazies will suffice.
there's mama crazy, and young crazy. there was another girl/daughter who lived there, but she had a modicum of sense, and therefore doesn't deserve the crazy name. she goes to unt, i wanna say, and she never comes back home on break. can't say i blame her.
but if we've lived there for ten years, they've been there for about seven.
and every year or so, they have some new dogs.
now.
don't get me wrong.
i love dogs.
i have a dog. lefty, the black lab. he's nine or ten in people years, and despite the fact that he punks me with reckless abandon, i love him. if he could talk, he'd sound like colonel sanders, i think.
(digression coming)
one day, it's really cold out, right?
so mr. car's windshield froze over, and i'm getting some hot water to throw on it. i open the door to the garage, let the garage door up, and proceed to scream like a banshee, 'cause my dog (a black dog, mind you) is scrabbling under the door to get in, away from the cold.
and he looks like a demon. never mind that he's a labrador retriever, and it's twice as cold there as it is in texas, my dog is a punk.
so i throw the water on the windshield, get my back pack, open the passenger door to put it in...and lo, and behold, lefty jumps in.
and would not get out.
and when i tried to coax him out, he decided to hop up in the driver's seat.
and by now, i'm thinking i'ma have to take this dog with me to school, and nearly crying about it.
i eventually got him out though. with trickery, deceit, and beggin' strips.
but. i've digressed. right. i love my dog.
but he lives outside.
and all of their dogs live inside.
dogs are animals. animals live outside. even if i wanted him inside, my mama says NO. and now we have wood floors? sorry, lefty. it's not gonna happen.
they took the carpet out once, and the sight of the feces-fouled flooring...alliteration in this piece, what? made me retch a little.
every year (or so) it's a new pair. first year, it was a mother rottweiler and a puppy.
they left quick.
then it was yippy and yappy.
the punkest dogs to ever live.
they always wanna put some bass in they throat to growl at you, but you sneak up on the busters, and say "BOO!" they will be yipe-yipe-ing away, faster than you can say stupid dogs...
nowadays, because i can't remember the others, there is special dog, and fool dog.
apparently their names are sugar and midnight, respectively.
special dog is mildly retarded, in my opinion.
but fool dog.
epics could be written about this dog.
i'm pretty sure if he could talk, he'd sound like a mix of dave chappelle and katt williams.
"sayyy, lemme holla atchu for a second there, playa..."
just like that. and he literally pimp walks. sum'n is wrong with his paw, but it only makes him that much more (is that proper english?) awesome.
but yeah. there are other crazy stories i could tell about my neighbors (like the time young crazy, who has to be my age, in the 9th grade and oddly resembling a walrus, was sitting outside, by herself in a skimpy swimsuit--mine eyessss--on a slip and slide...that was dry), but i think i'll save those for another post.

formspring.me

you can ask me 21 questions. on second thought...don't. http://formspring.me/devvyfbaby

he irks me

i hate when people wanna argue with you for ish that you ain't even do, and then make you apologize for it, all in the name of l-o-v-e.
you know what?
love can suck my imaginary penis.
hard.
it's twenty-ten, and lust is innn...
i wish i could put him on blast...but that's not my style.
instead, i think i'ma oh-so-casually forget about him.
like all about him.
like the negro's name.
mannn don't let me see you in chi-town...