No Shave November: the counterpart 

This is me. This is my beard. #NoShaveNovember 

Alright so I admit, I was last clean shaven in January and I started letting it grow out like this in May. So this isn’t just November, but who’s going to blame me for not wanting to shave this beauty.  

I also apologize for Mr.Young  Alcoholic himself and my early morning beard selfies. Nobody needs to see that….

No-Shave November: The Bad Beard Contest Continues!

I got a very late jump on No-Shave November because I started a new job at the beginning of the month and didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot by rolling up to the office looking like a hobo. I have a terrible beard. It doesn’t help that I’ve got blond-ish hair.

I don’t think I’ve shaved since probably Thanksgiving so it’s been like a week and a half or so. The results are hideous. It’s also not good that I’ve kept growing this face rug a full week into December. Now it looks like I’ve either given up on life and chosen to become a dirty wizard or (even worse) it that I look like I think that I’m pulling this off. CHAMPING THAT NECKBEARD. I’m not pulling the bad beard off. It must be destroyed.

This might be the worst beard in North America:

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It’s almost non-existent. That’s the worst part about having a bad beard. When you have a bad beard and try to grow it out, because you don’t really have a “beard” it just looks like your face is wicked dirty.

My mustache game is pretty weak as well:

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…neck-beard game is strong though…too strong…

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This failed experiment is over. My face needs an exorcism. If you’re still growing your No-Shave November beard too, your face probably also needs an exorcism. Somebody has to put an end to this madness.

Quitting Smoking! Round 2!

I “quit smoking” about two months ago. That was a big fuggin’ jklol failure. I thought that getting a job in an office would be a good way to quit because I didn’t want to be rippin’ mad butts outside the building on my breaks and then come back in and straight up reek of cigarette smoke. That feels like an invasion of others’ personal space. I hate smelling like I’ve been rippin’ mad butts when I’m rippin’ mad butts but that’s what happens when you rip mad butts (read: 4 cigarettes a day).

What I did NOT anticipate was that EVERYBODY who works in a call center smokes (read: actually rips mad butts). It’s almost like it’s mandatory. Sitting down all day in an office is a good way to suffer from  a stroke. That’s just science. Rippin’ mad butts in between hours long stints of sitting down all day is like a guaranteed stroke. You’re practically asking to have a stroke. I don’t want to have a stroke! I’m a retired teenage heartthrob, I’ve got too much riding on this new comeback to have a stroke. My agent’s gonna kill me.

Four cigarettes is not much. I have never in my life smoked a whole fuggin’ pack of cigarettes. I have no idea how people fucking do it. That seems insane. Don’t you get thirsty?? What the fuck is wrong with people?? One thing that I hate about smoking is that it makes me wicked thirsty and I’m already thirsty all the time whether or not I’m smoking. I probably have diabetes.

It’s been a shitty time trying to ditch my 4-cigs a day habit. It’s not exactly costly but it still sucks and I’d rather not be smoking. I like chewing gum and packing a big fat lip of sunflower seeds but it just doesn’t give me the same buzz, bro. I miss that RUSH. Problem is, cigarettes make me tired. I already feel like I could fall asleep anywhere at any time. I’m at work right now and if you told me to fall asleep I’d do it. On command. That’s probably a bad sign and indicative of some larger health problem that I should probably address. It’s probably diabetes again.

Anywhom, I’ve had my “last cigarette” this morning (again). I was down to half a cigarette a day but then I started working at a call center. Who knew! I didn’t. But whatever. So far so good.

I sort of like smoking as a crutch when I’m struggling with not drinking or smoking weed. It’s been 6-months since I smoked marijuana but my god if it was as easily accessible as alcohol, I’d be smoking it.

Cigarettes are dangerous. They’ll kill you pretty fuggin’ quickly, dOOd. And in the gnarliest ways possible (like a stroke). Mostly though, cigarettes make me unbelievably tired so I’m finally quitting for real this time. I just really don’t want to have a stroke.


Smoking blows. What’s worse is trying to quit smoking. I’ve been smoking for about 10 months now but I’ve been slowly cutting back. I don’t need to tell you why I want to quit smoking; smoking’s fucking bad for you. There’s absolute nothing good about smoking. It kills you. Period. It’s a waste of valuable time, money, and life. Quitting is a goodass idea.

The tricky thing is that I kinda like it! And as badly as I want to quit, I don’t have enough goodass reasons for quitting that make me WANT to quit.

I don’t smoke that heavily. Three or four cigarettes a day is heavy for me. I have a hard time even finishing a whole cigarette these days now that I’ve cut down significantly. However, I’m also a recovering alcoholic and trying to avoid smoking weed so I’m currently using cigarettes as a crutch. It’s a sucky crutch and I’d rather develop good habits like going back to the gym or something like that.

I’d like to throw this question out there to the community at large!

What’s a good way to quit smoking?

Have you quit smoking in the past? What’s helped you to quit smoking?

HOLLA AT ME! I’d love to hear from you!

The Stupidest Stuff That You Worry About

“If you worry about something and it happens, then you’ve only lived it twice.” Michael J. Fox said that. That’s not a direct quote, but that’s the gist. Worrying is stupid. Worrying keeps you from getting out of bed in the morning because the moment you wake up your brain trolls your ass and bombards you with all of the illegitimate things that could possibly go wrong over the course you your day. In my experience, worrying is the fucking worst. The shittiest part of it is that I always know that I’m being stupid when I get all worked up about these imaginary issues that my brain decides are worth fussing over. My brain sucks. If you’re looking to trade with me, please feel free to hit me up! I’ll pay you to take ‘er off my hands! (No refunds).

The stupidest thing that I worry about is losing my hair. I’m just your friendly, neighborhood dudebro with a kill head of lettuce. I do not want to lose my lettuce. I’ve shaved my head before and my head has more dents in it than a repossessed school bus. And it looks like Dr. Frankenstein started building me a head, but then his clumsy ass dropped that shit down an abandoned mine shaft. I don’t know what is up with my skull but it’s not pretty shape.

I’ve had a five-head since all of my life. I’ve had what looks like a receding hair-line since I was in elementary school. I’ve been self-conscious about my hair for as long as I can remember. Not only do I have an ugly dome, an epic, Peyton Manning five-head, but I’ve also got the blonde-guy equivalent to the Asian, straight-haired ‘fro. It sounds cool in theory, but it’s not that rad. Having straight hair is kinda shitty. If I wear it down, I look 10 years younger. That blows because I’m only 22 and I really don’t wanna look like a middle schooler. I like to think I’ve outgrown that awkward phase. And then my other option is to style it. Styling your hair is fun! When I’m having a goodass hair day, I feel unstoppable! There’s nothing better than a good hair day. However, when I style my hair, I look don’t look a day under 35. In the past, I’ve convinced people that I’m a single/divorced dad. That’s not good. That’s not good at all. I don’t think that I really look 22, if there is a “look” that goes with being in your early 20’s. But one thing that certainly does NOT make you look 22 is going fucking bald.

Now, truth be told, I’m not going bald. Some of my hair (ONLY SOME thank fucking god) has fallen out because of stress and drug/alcohol abuse. But now that I’m in recovery and approaching 100-days sober, my life is MUCH less stressful. If you’re like me and you’ve found that your hair gets kinda thin and falls out from stress, DO NOT FUCKING WORRY!! That shit grows back. I promise. I know from experience. It takes a LONG ASS TIME but it does actually grow back. There’s nothing that sucks worse than the injustice of losing your hair when you’re young. OH THE HUMANITY! But really, is it worth worrying about? Is it REALLY going to to effect my sobriety and recovery from alcoholism/addiction? Or am I letting it effect my sobriety and setting myself up for failure? I think it’s the last one. Combined with my douche bag brain imagining things.

The hair that I’ve lost from stress is not really noticeable BUT I SURE AS HELL NOTICE IT! But really, this is some bullshit that I should not be worrying about. Hair fucking falls out. When the hair gods come to scalp you, you’re fucked and there is not really anything you can do about it. Now, if I didn’t have a hideous dome, I’d be shaving that shit daily because as vain as I am, I fucking hate having to always worry about my hair. It’s a really stupid and vain thing to worry about especially when it’s more of a reflection of my neurosis and my childish horse shit than it is some kind of STATUS SYMBOL. But, truly, the only reason that I worry about it is because I look like Skeletor when I buzz my lettuce down. I get pissed off just thinking about it. Not only is my head all dented up from years of bashings, but it’s shaped like a dinosaur egg and it’s roughly the same size. It’s just not that big. I’ve got a tiny head on a 6’1″ body. It’s a STRUGGLE, MAN! YOU DON’T EVEN FUCKING KNOW!

This is why I like putting my idiotic worries into words and tackling them because when I say them out loud, I realize just how stupid they are. And worrying about losing my hair is stupid. I’m a grownass man now and whether or not I like it, my ass is going bald at some point. So I can either worry about that until the day it actually happens–and god only knows, how shitty would that be if I spent my whole life worrying about going bald and NEVER went bald? That would fucking awful. That’s not even fucking worth it. That’s some Greek Mythology shit: the miserable douche who lived to be 100 and spent every day of his life FREAKING THE FUCK OUT about going bald, and never EVER lost a single hair on his melon. What an absolutely appalling waste of time. Look, if you’re an idiot kid like me and worry about going bald in a completely irrational way on a daily basis, then think about this: in the future, probably in our lifetimes, we’ll cure baldness completely. I guarantee it. I bet $5 that there are more scientists working in labs all over the world trying to create a pill that completely reverses hair loss than there are trying to cure cancer. And that’s fucked up. More men are probably worried about losing their hair than they are about getting cancer. Is one more likely than the other? Yes. Undeniably. Cancer isn’t nearly as common as hair loss, but they way that people worry about it, you’d think that it was. The reality is–and I hate to admit it–that hair loss is not lethal. If I wake up tomorrow with no hair, the only thing I really have to worry about is a sunburn. I’m not gonna die. But I know I’m not the only dude out there who worries about hair loss being THE HIDDEN KILLER! It’s not. I gotta get over myself. And you do too.

By the time all of us are dead, hair loss will have been eradicated and no longer shall humans be plagued by such a malevolent reality of nature. Being bald will probably turn into a fashion statement–especially when NOBODY is bald. People will “rock the natural look” as some kind of counter culture thing. It’ll be weird when our great grandchildren look back at our selfies and see that baldness was an unstoppable fucking force that we were too weak to contend with. It vexed us and tortured us. It kept us from going to Mars and curing cancer. IT’S JUST NOT WORTH IT IF I DON’T HAVE HAIR!! No, really, it’s cool. You’re not gonna die.

If anything, I’m kinda looking forward to my life getting significantly easier once all of my hair falls out and I’m left with no choice. Of course, there IS a choice and that is to be a toolbox and get a hair transplant or nut the fuck up and shave my head and be a fucking man. Am I really going to spend my early 20’s saving up for a cosmetic surgery that I really don’t need? If I choose to keep letting this effect me, then yes, I am headed down that sad, lonely road. What does it say about my content of character that THAT really matters to me? I MUST HAVE HAIR OR ELSE I CAN’T LOOK MYSELF IN THE MIRROR!! I’M A MONSTER!! That’s pathetic and I’m being a baby.

Like all stupid worries, I feel childish and ashamed to even admit that I’ve got a whole article full of things to say about this topic. But it’s puzzling to me that I KNOW this is irrational and negatively effecting my life in that I’m wasting a lot of time stressing about something that doesn’t really matter, and yet I still stress about it. Even worse, I beat myself up for stressing about it and then I stress about stressing about it. And all that time I stress about the stress and cause triple the stress, I lose more hair from stress. This is the stupidest catch-22 of all time. And I’m done with it. This is dumb. I’m troubled by this in a way that I would be if my doctor told me that one day I’m likely to lose my hands and feet. I’ve honestly got nothing to lose by going bald. Instead, I’ve started looking at is as having something to gain: peace of mind. If my douche bag brain could have one less thing to trouble me with, my life would improve greatly.

So don’t worry. Especially not about losing your hair. I’m not going to go bald and all of the sudden lose all of my friends and become homeless and pick up the bottle again. No. That’s not happening no matter how much I worry that it will happen. But if I do keep worrying about something this stupid, my friends will get pissed and resentful and if it starts effecting my personality and I become an asshole about it, then I will lose my friends. And if I let this get me worked up, there’s no telling how something this insignificant can put me in the relapse zone (it doesn’t take much if you understand the mechanisms behind addiction). So shut the fuck up, brain. You’re making my head an inhospitable environment for both me and my hair that lives on top of you! I’m cool with my hair. If my hair wants to leave, I totally don’t blame it. My head is a mess and not a cool place. I completely understand why my hair doesn’t wanna be chilling on top of such a shitty place. With a neighbor like my brain, my hair has every right to abandon shit. “This neighborhood blows. Adios, fucker!” That’s what my hair is is thinking while my brain is churning away and cranking about bullshit. This is dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. All us should stop worrying. It’s gonna be ok. I promise. Enjoy it while you have it!

I Had Tig Ol’ Biddies Too Young (.)(.)

I’ve been rocking 32 Double D’s for the better part of a decade now. And I still want them gone. I’ve tried to be lenient and accepting. But, honestly the quality of my life would be greatly improved if I didn’t have such large titties. And that’s the God honest truth. I have made a loose promise to myself that I would not continue to use the word “hate” in reference to any part of my body. So, let’s use the word disdain. I have disdain for them. I feel cheated out of having the benefit of the doubt, at times.

Girls who develop breasts early in life can be victims of sexual abuse most likely because breasts are sexualized parts of a woman’s body. That, in combination with an ass, that’s an ideal woman; especially a woman of color, where those assets are highly valued. I have seen 9 or 10 year old girls with bigger booties than I at 22. In addition, fashion for girls that age is “cute” or “sporty”. I remember Limited Too or now, Justice. But, what if those kid brands don’t fit you? What if you were a 12-year-old girl with C cups? We skip past cute and straight into an uncomfortable adolescence. A realm where suddenly these parts of your body hurt or men look at you funny.

The summer between fifth and sixth grade was a very exciting, life-changing event. I do not remember much about specifics; I was in Cincinnati and I think that was one of the first summers I spent all summer there. The point is, it would be the next year at my new, lily-white private school where I noticed my body was different. Luckily (somewhat…), there was another girl who got the bevy of attention. Let’s call her “Sheila”. Her father was a doctor and she was the first wealthy black girl I had ever met. Sheila was glamorous and perfect in my eyes. She had designer purses, UGG boots, and a woman who drove her to and from school everyday. Sheila wore intricate hairstyles with soft, buttery weaves. She lived in a huge McMansion. Her mom was a hefty woman with Sheila’s chestnut skin who always wore a Winnie the Pooh jean jacket every single time I saw her. Her father I saw at Costco once with my mother, canoodling with a mature blonde. I’m not sure whatever happened with that; I never told Sheila what I had seen either. I figured it wasn’t my place.

Back on topic, I understood why the Commodore lamented over a chick being built like a brick house; Sheila had back and front. And, she was a competitive gymnast, so she was very muscular too. Imagine a compact, 12-year-old version of Serena Williams. That was Sheila. I used to hate on her a bit before we became buddies but her body taught me a lot about my own. The positive and negative responses from our white peers were directed toward Sheila; she was a “Queen Bee” but also a victim of intense scrutiny. Sheila taught me about bras, Victoria’s Secret, kissing boys, and what it was like to be privileged and black. That being said, life must’ve been hard for her. To be surrounded by thin, white, childish-looking girls who see immature boys ogling her must’ve been both empowering and damning.

My own came in later that year. I remember an older girl, a mahogany-colored loudmouth we will call “Deja”, coming up to me in our school’s open library that I should be wearing a bra because I had big titties now. I also remember comments from a friend, a waifish blonde we will call “Debbie”. “Debbie” was stubborn about me wearing a bra. In my defense, I was wearing a bra but more like a bralette and it was the wrong size. I was not fashionable. I had just come from a school with a uniform policy. Navy, white, and khaki were the only colors I wore. I still love those colors to this day. Suddenly, I was in a world of Dooney and Burke bags and Abercrombie and Fitch. I was ill-equipped. Sheila actually gave me my first bra; a lime-green Victoria’s Secret bra with scalloped straps. I do not remember the size, possibly a small C-cup. I was liberated! It was then that I knew I possessed two balls of power strapped to my chest. But unlike Sheila, I was a literal twig. It screwed up the dynamic; I was referred to as a butterface (as in, she’s sexy but-her-face). It was before glasses were sexy; damn, I missed the boat on that.

Either way if you are a young woman and you have huge titties and they make you feel uncomfortable, that’s ok. But remember, there is a flat-chested girl on the other side of the field who would slice a titty off Buffalo Bill style. Ok, maybe not that bad unless you live in Florida, anything happens down there it’s a lawless land. I’m not going to be fake and say you have to love yourself though it. No, if you feel your body affects your life to the extent that they are hindering your success, you have every right to change it. As soon as my bullshit credit rating greats better, I’m investing in myself and getting a breast reduction. Of course, I’ll consult with a specialist and maybe even I’ll go to Atlanta to have it done because black folk when we get cut up it leaves scars and I saw that show Atlanta Plastic and the dark-skinned doctor is fire. He’s like a skilled butcher. He knows the way of the samurai.