The Mind of Swerve 2: Swerving Harder Vol. 2- Feb. '06

You know you love it.

Well, we meet again. In an effort to make my Swerve personality more transparent, I will continue to pretend that this blog is my therapist. My first post about Swerve was just an appetizer; a snack for those who were hungry, but a warning for those scared to dive deeper. This post features more explanations as to why I wrote what I did, and what the metaphors mean. Again, this Swerve piece was written in stream-of-consciousness fashion. To be honest, it was never actually "finished." Luckily for you guys and gals, I can actually remember what most of it means.  As I dig through the rubble of my mind to uncover the gems, I hope that your voyeuristic urges are satisfied.

I am going to break this up into two chunks. After each section, I will explain what I am getting on about in the rhyme. Reading over the material, I have to say that I was a little apprehensive about posting this. Over the years, I guess I have considered the contents on this page quite personal. Naturally, the names are changed (mainly for rhyming and legal purposes) and the story is overall true (loosely based on myself and others). I guess you could say that this is an archive depicting the beginnings of my cynicism (hehe). There must be a girl involved, right? Read on.  

 < I'm not Reaper, I'm Swerve because I'm high again/ with more hydro than an aquamarine Leviathan/ but you can't tell because my eyes are behind aviators/ this girl wont give me a solid response, only maybe laters/ I'm grizzled, but she's chiseled like a marble sculpture/ eying her like raw meat to a hungry vulture/ sometimes I skip class to watch girls graze campus like antelope/ the thoughts that come up are on a whole nother other scope/ I need Jesus or at least someone like the Pope/ or look on Ebay for some kind of mental disinfecting soap/ Hey baby I'm Swerve, Reaper's my alter ego/ and Terry, he just hitches a ride wherever we go/ but I'll give him credit because he created this freak show/>

Okay, from the top. Reaper, before Swerve, was my lyrical persona. I used to rap about death and destruction, so I thought the name was quite fitting. In the summer of 2005, I started to develop a "higher" consciousness regarding my lyrical content. Along with this upper-level scholastic writing, I acquired an increasing academic appetite for the female form. Yeah, I clowned back in the days.

I have mingled with many different groups of people. From hypochondriac models to stargazing hippies, I have rolled with a large swath of humanity during my short existence. A few years ago, I had a personality for each group. Even the way that I spit game at different groups of women depended on the persona that I donned at the particular moment. It sounds hella crazy now that I'm typing this out, but it was a little boring in the long run to be honest. Shall we continue?

 < It happened the night I got caught smoking but left no evidence/ all traces were inhaled and I've been a lyrical master ever since/ speaking of cents, do you have change for this dead president?/ if you let me grab your butt I bet you that I can tell your measurement/ It's a God-given talent from the high throne of Heaven/ I've been grabbing the tails of females since grade 7/ I just walked past a cutie, but I hear she scared of Black folks/ so I try to make her lighten up, rub her back and crack jokes/ she told me her name was Megan/ and she was upping her standards so you know she had me beggin/ we started dating, she wanted to take it slow but thought I might frown/ so she surprised me on our anniversary in a G-string and a nightgown/ after I hit she was gone without a trace amount/ until I seen her Facebook and Myspace account/>

 Keep reading.

Picture this if you will: There are three teenage boys chilling watching TV. You know, stoner kids. Your parents would call them "wasted youth." Two of the boys decide to put a pizza in the oven and fugetaboutit (my best/worst stereotypical Italian mob voice in typeface). The other kid gets some twisted Bill Nye inspiration and starts to assemble several homemade water bongs. Three or four bong rips later, there is a knock on the door. "Heavens no!" Bill Nye Jr. starts to sweep as many plastic 2-liter bottles into black trash bags as he could. The pizza twins play dead on the couch in Bill Nye's room. Utterly useless, these two. All three boys know that it could only be little Bill's mum at the door. Or maybe the ghost of Bob Marley. Just maybe. Bugged-out, Bill answers the door, eyes red and teeth rattling. 

Bill's Mum: "There's a f**king pizza downstairs. It burned my kitchen up." 

Bill Jr.: "Sorry mum, the pizza twins are at it again. I'll clean it up." 

Bill's Mum: "I smell pot."

Bill Jr.: "I don't smoke pot."

The only thing I remember after that is a loud crash and stoner Bill was catapulted into the air. Then, there was a searing white flash, and it was the next day. I awoke at my house from a dream like Neo. Regardless, the dreamlike trance had nothing on me. I knew that event was real.

*Phew!* Well, that explains the first two lines of this section. The rest is pretty self explanatory. It involves a chick (not named Megan) that was cool at one point, but that relationship ended with a shotgun being pointed at my face. Another story for another time.      

For real. 

After all of that drama, I made a vow to never again get caught up in such ignorance. So far, so good. Along with the vow, I started to become more cynical about life and the games associated with certain types of relationships. All jokes aside, being single is where I'm meant to be. Right, Louis C.K.? 

Well, not ALL jokes aside. 

This has concluded The Mind of Swerve 2: Swerving Harder Vol. 2-Feb. '06. I hope you have enjoyed the read. For the illiterate, I have also included pictures and a video. And you're stupid! (It's cool, you can laugh. Remember, they can't read.)  

I will once again leave you with proof of this Swerve relic. This page happens to look a little sharper because I wrote it with ink. Let me know what you think. 

Why did I keep this? Foresight, I suppose.

 -Terry