I guess after one fails at suicide, the only thing they can do is be a success in life.
I often thought that pain was the best secondary attention magnet. I came to find out that in the Black community, everybody and their goddamn cousin’s mother’s cousin’s mother was using it. And some of those folks were damn good. And they knew the value of a project upbringing, a night hiding behind a bush during a gun skirmish, or an abusive step-father. And in the Black Community, if you had any intelligence of the bright kind, all of your pain points were made valueless. So matter what I had gone through that day, night, week, month or year-due to my IQ score – I was ineligible for pain.
Interesting enough, I finally got over my pain-by my Self, thank you- through the medium of writing. Through writing I found my voice, and I was able to gain the attention of a very adept critic, but one that seemed very fond of reading my works – My Self. I suppose being addicted to one’s own words is something like narcissism, but i also suppose being addicted to any show on BET is a form of retard. Unfortunately, however, my words reeked of my pain, and in order to get any attention to them sans my Self, I’d have to present them to a white audience. As I said, in the Black community, you have to have ran through the projects in Ku Klux Klan outift screaming “nigger” like an alien with Tourette’s, survive several gun battles while carrying your crack addicted mother on your shoulders while juggling flaming Molotov cocktails to get any attention for your pain. And these guys in the Black community don’t play about that pain shit…they’ll go interview your mother’s cousin’s mother’s cousin and get details about just how much pain you have been in. Those guys have a daily news cast called “The Credibility Hour,” that determines just who should get our attention for pain, and who shouldn’t. So I said fuck the Black community, I’m taking my ass online…
I began to write, and even more importantly, I began to read the works of others. I soon realized that there was an entire nation of us victims of the inability to be victims. Social networks filled with Black people debating about how much more pain they had been through than other Black people. And although I was a getting better at being a writer, I was once again cornered by the Pain Police. They ran my name through nationwide Pain database that uses a special algorithm to rate just how much pain you have encountered and how much attention you should receive due to your Pain Quotient. They sent in a special unit for me. I began to talk fast like I typically do when cornered by the special unit(yeah, this wasn’t the first time they had to bring in the experts for me). The special unit began to laugh and they stated,”Oh, this guy isn’t in pain, he’s just crazy!”
If I had known all these years that in the Black community you could get your expression of pain converted into craziness with less scrutiny, I’d have called my writings an Asylum a long time ago!! The guys laughed at my pain, and slapped one another on the hands with precise rhymatic gestures, and sent me on my way with a “get yo’ crazy ass out of here!” I had finally done it! I had stumbled on the answer to all my concerns:Black People don’t know the difference between someone in pain and insanity!
I scoured the web on a mission to inform others that had been harassed by the Pain Police of my ingenious plot to express one’s torments without having to hear some Black person discussing how much more agony they had been in. I was set on my way to make the Black Community insane!!!