Extraordinary Musings, Volume I

Salut tout le monde!

First of all, I just wanted to apologize for the somewhat long hiatus I’ve taken from this blog. The past month or so has been pretty eventful for me, with the introduction of new things and people into my life. But to cut the long story short, I’ve basically just been busy doing the utmost and the utleast at the same time.

And yes, I just made up a word. Who gon’ check me boo?

Anyways…

Deuxièmement, I don’t really have an interesting story to tell in this post since my life has been somewhat temporarily paralyzed by boredom (well, that’s a lie, I could never be boring. I just don’t feel like telling y’all anything right now.), so I’ve decided to introduce a new segment here that I like to call Extraordinary Musings. It’s really just a few of my random and potentially profound thoughts that have come to my mind recently. I’ll also sprinkle in a few things that simply grind my gears. Feel free to comment or @ me on Twitter if you want to respond to any of them.

Bon. Allons-y.

***********

Roughly 46% of my thoughts are in French. I occasionally dream in French as well. Sometimes, although it doesn’t happen that often anymore, I think in French, then forget to translate my thought into English when I start talking. But honestly, what really annoys me is when people ask me to translate something I just said in French. Now, let’s think about this rationally for a second. If I know you don’t speak French, yet I say something to you, or maybe in your general area, in French, wouldn’t you think it’s probably because I didn’t want you to understand what I was saying? If I felt like letting you in on the joke, I would’ve said it in English.

And trust me, if I didn’t say it in English, it’s pretty safe to assume that what I said was going to hurt your feelings anyways.

************

I have one particular Facebook friend that irks every fiber of my being. For some reason, her statuses have been popping up on my minifeed more frequently than usual, as if Mark Zuckerberg himself is putting her there just to irritate me everyday. And why, might you ask, does this girl make me so irate? Well, it’s because all of her status updates are about how much her life sucks. But the thing is, everyone’s life sucks. That’s just how it works. Like they say in my homeland, rain doesn’t just fall on one person’s house.

At the end of the day, God never gives us more than we can bear. So just carry your cross and keep it moving, because there are probably several people who would love to be where you are.

************

Regret nothing; because remember, at one point, it was exactly what you wanted. So be the best captain of your ship as possible. Be spontaneous – take impromptu road trips, change your hairstyle, try new foods. Sometimes, throwing caution to the wind is exactly what you may need to take your life to the next level.

But don’t get too crazy. God is watching you.

~

Well that’s about it. I promise to write something more substantial next time I decide to show up around this e-hood. But in the meantime, check out my Hair Diaries feature on ChellyWellzShop. I got a chance to talk about my all-time favorite topic: weaves!

À plus tard, y’all!

Love, Live Life, Proceed, Progess

On November 1, I turned 22 years old.

Celebrating another birthday gave me an opportunity to reflect on my successes, failures, dreams, and realities.

At the risk of sounding redundant, my reflections kept bringing me back to one salient observation: I truly am the definition of greatness.

I’ve been through a lot in my 22 years on this earth. A lot more than many of you will ever realize. In fact, some of my life experiences have been so painful that I will probably never speak of them again. Although much of what I’ve faced would destroy and demoralize a great deal of people, I thank God that they have only transformed me into the extraordinary Extraordinaire you see before you today.

However, despite my utter fabulousness, I must admit that I am still a work in progress.

So in the spirit of full disclosure, I’ve decided to give you a rare glimpse at a few of the less-than-extraordinary things about me.

Ready?

Allons-y tout le monde!

I snore like a lumberjack.

It’s a serious problem.

Oddly enough, I usually don’t snore if I’m sleeping while the sun is up. But as soon as the moon decides to appear, all bets are off! Sometimes my snoring is so loud that it even wakes me up. Fortunately, it’s more of a periodical thing; I typically don’t snore straight through the night, it kind of starts and stops intermittently. But I must say, I honestly feel bad for whomever I end up marrying; he might have to sleep with earplugs.

I laugh when people die.

For some reason, when I hear about someone dying, I immediately either smile or laugh. Needless to say, this little habit of mine has made for some incredibly uncomfortable situations. Don’t get me wrong though; I by no means find joy in the death of others. I think it’s simply because I just don’t do sadness very well. I’ve been such a thug for so long that I don’t know how to appropriately express any other emotion besides anger. To me, anger is really the only useful emotion, and since it's the only one I use on the regular, my brain gets confused when I have to use anything else in my emotional repertoire, hence the whole laughing-when-I-should-be-crying thing.

Awky.

I am unbelievably selfish.

Don’t bother asking me to do anything for you, because nine times out of ten, I won’t do it if there’s nothing in it for me. My selfishness is also the main reason why I generally have no interest in current affairs, social causes, or poverty. If it doesn’t affect my life, don’t expect me to care.

But you can’t really blame me though. I’m an only child. I didn’t grow up having to care about anyone other than myself. I honestly didn’t even know I was selfish until my freshman year of college, when a friend of mine came to my dorm and absently took a handful of cashews from a jar on my desk.

I looked at her like she had just killed my firstborn child.

For the life of me, I just couldn’t understand what in the entirety of God’s perfect universe would make her think it was a good idea to just take something that so obviously belonged to me. I didn’t talk to her for three days afterwards.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Well, there you have it.

I bet you’re all shocked, but I do in fact have a few minor faults.

Although I am working on improving some of these things, I would never want to fully correct them. At the end of the day, all of these flaws, as well as the multitude of others I didn’t discuss, make me who I am.

So as I begin this new year of my life, I am determined to make this the best year yet. I plan to smile bigger, laugh longer, and love harder. Every day brings another chance to become a better me. And I encourage you all to do the same.

I leave you all with this picture I stumbled across on Tumblr. It made my heart smile. 

It's All Greek To Me

A few days ago, I had a conversation with one of my little homies, who is now a freshman in college. As we discussed her experience thus far, I naturally asked her if she was interested in pledging a sorority (*ahem* Delta Sigma Theta! *ahem*), to which she replied:

I could never be in a sorority. Y’all think y’all are better than everyone else just because y’all belong to a glorified gang. I’ll pass.

Her response saddened me to my core.

But what was even more upsetting was that this wasn’t the first time someone has expressed this sentiment to me.

As a former president of an award-winning chapter of (in my opinion) the GREATEST sorority ever established, I know that my actions will always be a reflection of my organization. So if I’m walking around a college campus or city acting like the biggest slutbucket of the century, it’s very possible that many people will think:

Well, since she’s looser than an untied shoelace, I’m sure all those Deltas are Freak-a-leeks too.

When we join any of the Divine 9 organizations, we all pledge to uphold and personify their founding ideals for the rest of our lives. So whether we like it or not, once we put on any piece of para, we’re often viewed as Jessica the Delta or John the Que, rather than Jessica That’s On The Debate Team or John That Reads To The Blind, Deaf and Dumb Dyslexic Midgets Every Tuesday And Thursday.  

Unfortunately, one thing I’ve noticed is that many collegiate Greeks use their org as a platform for popularity. People who were band geeks, chess junkies or just plain annoying get some letters and they think they’re the next Morris Chestnut. All of a sudden, the dude who had absolutely no friends before crossing thinks he has the license to treat GDIs (as we so “fondly” call non-Greeks) any kind of way.

Naturally, people are going to look up to Greeks because it is by nature an exclusive position, but we are not supposed to hold our statuses above the heads of our peers. Because at the end of the day, there will always be plenty of people without letters who are prettier, more popular, and more involved in the community than we are.

Now that most of the Divine 9 organizations are either nearing or have surpassed their centennials, many question if their existence is still relevant in the Black community, and in America at large. I honestly think this question wouldn’t need asking if we actually remembered the oaths we took and applied their words to our daily lives. Being in a sorority or fraternity is not about step shows, stroll practices, and one-upping other orgs. Each of our organizations were founded out of the need for blacks to come together in a constructive manner and to affect positive changes in our communities, while inspiring those behind us to strive for greatness. If we recall these objectives and truly attempt to live up to them, conversations like the one I had last week would cease to exist.

So, to my fellow Greeks, please remember that a linejacket can only cover your body; it won’t do much to mask your ego or piss-poor personality.

In conclusion, I leave you with the wise words of the esteemed philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche - “Deltas are great.”

#kthanksbye 

Holding Him Down: The Trials and Tribulations of a Ride or Die

I’ve always thought it would be nice to be a Ride or Die chick.

But not in the “hold my man down while he’s doing a bid in the Pen” sense. That’s just stupidity.

I’m thinking more along the lines of “I Wanna Be Down” à la Brandy. You know, the romantic black-and-white movie type of love where they kiss in the rain and do all other sorts of nonsensically loving things that will cause most people to call you “whipped.”

Well, maybe not whipped, per se. I still need to maintain my thug status on these streets.

But anyway.

I recently read a book entitled Mercy by Jodi Picoult in which an extremely devoted husband agreed to the difficult task of killing his wife (upon her request) because of the excruciating pain she faced while losing her particularly aggressive battle with cancer. Although the thought of living without his wife broke his heart into a million pieces, he pushed aside his feelings because he wanted more than anything to make sure that she was always happy.

Now that’s a Ride or Die.

In this book, there was one passage that really struck me. Jaime, the protagonist, said to his cousin:

It’s the 70/30 principle. In any relationship, one person always loves the other person more. It may be a 70/30 split or a 60/40 split, but it is never 50/50. Relationships are never equal.

So of course, being the intellectual negro that I am, I began to contemplate the validity of this claim.

In reality, these words are the basis of all Ride or Die situations. To be a Ride or Die, you must be able to put the needs, wants, and desires of your partner before your own. But there’s no way that would be possible if the love shared between the two parties is in fact equal. Neither person would ever have a love strong enough to go above and beyond the call of duty for the other person.

This led me to my next rumination:

Would you really want to be in a relationship where you know that the person you would kill or be killed for wouldn’t do the same for you?

I wouldn’t.

I’m sure that most people would like to believe that if they are putting in so much focus and energy on their significant other to the point where their own needs become secondary, the object of their affection would do the same, if not more, for them. But if the 70/30 principle does in fact exist, then that is never really the case. And that’s depressing as hell.

So what’s an extraordinary diva like me to do?

Well, although there are many people and theories out there that tell us that love is the ultimate losing game, I like to look at things from a more positive perspective. Because, to be honest, I love love.

But don’t tell anyone I said that.

I believe that love is one of the greatest gifts God gave to mankind. And God loves love too (peep John 3:16). In fact, Jesus was love personified. So if our omnipotent Creator could place so much emphasis on love, there is no person, theory or song that can tell me love just isn’t worth it.

I say all that to say this: surrendering yourself to love’s devices might possibly be the worst thing to ever happen to you, but it will DEFINITELY also be one of the best decisions you’ve ever made.

So, I guess one day, I would actually like to be a Ride or Die. But for now, I’m too busy loving myself to have room in my heart for anyone else.   

College is Dumb.

As of today, it has been four months and two days since I’ve graduated from Boston College. And what do I have to show for my shiny new $216,000.00 degree?

Not much.

At all.

Shortly after graduation, countless people said to me, “Oh, you went to BC? And you were an economics major?! Don’t worry, you should be rolling in dough in no time!”

Lies and deceit.

I honestly thought by now I would at least be somewhere near the path to fame and fortune. But alas, I’m not even in the same stratosphere as slight recognition and a comfortable living.

Therefore, I have recently come to one major conclusion: A college education is quite possibly one of the biggest swindles in recent American history.

Boston College is one of the most reputable universities in the country. It prides itself on not just having stellar academic programs, but also how its Jesuit Catholic heritage breeds “men and women for others.” They charge an exorbitant amount for their education because they believe that after spending four years on The Heights, all students who pass through those hallowed halls will have the business acumen of Donald Trump and the pious compassion of Mother Teresa.

Well, would you like to know what I learned in college?

How to make mac and cheese.

And that I might have a slight gambling problem.

If you were to ask me right now to explain the fundamentals of Keynesian economics, I couldn’t tell you anything besides the fact that Keynes was British. Honestly, I probably couldn’t tell you much more about economics than you can find out for yourself on CNN or Google.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not stupid by any means (I graduated with a 3.48 GPA, which is certainly not an easy feat to accomplish as an econ major at BC. But I digress…). However, if you talk to any random assortment of economics students, they might express a similar sentiment. We know enough to pass the tests, and pretty much forget the material at the end of each semester.

I mean, let’s be real. Who actually goes to college to learn these days?

The most memorable moments I had at BC were those random nights partying with my suitemates, cooking Sunday dinners, and even the occasional impromptu road trip to the casino. I not only made some great friends, but true sisters that I know will always be there for me through the good times and the bad. And I certainly learned a lot about myself in the process.

So although I can say that college made me a better person, I can’t say it made me a smarter person.

And that’s a damn shame.

My diploma is really nothing more than a reminder that I now know what a “sweatbox” is and that the Borgata is the best hotel in Atlantic City. 

Welp. It’s not like anyone wants to hire me with a stupid little bachelor’s degree anyway.

Catch a Playa by the Toe...

I have a man problem.

Of course, since I’m so extraordinarily beautiful (BBM winky face), it’s only natural that I have to fight off the men folk approximately every 94 seconds.

Actually, I guess I have 2 man problems.

Lately, I’ve noticed that as soon as I stop being involved with one guy, I get involved with someone else. And by soon, I mean soon. Like in a matter of days.

It’s not like I do it consciously, though. I’m by no means one of those girls that are dependent on a man to make them happy.

Well, at least I think I’m not. The problem is, I haven’t really had the chance to be by myself and find out if that’s the case.

But I have tried.

Recently, one of my linesisters and I decided that we were going to go on a man cleanse. No dates, no giving out our numbers, no romantic encounters of any kind with the opposite sex. Just us and Jesus for three whole months. Unfortunately, we decided to embark on this mission the week before the Omega Psi Phi Centennial was here in DC.

Needless to say, our man cleanse lasted for a grand total of 5 days.

Although the man cleanse was extremely short-lived, I did learn a few valuable lessons from my time of reflection.

Lesson #1: You always want what you can’t have.

The first thing I noticed was that the very next day after I publicly declared my man cleanse via Twitter, men literally started coming out the woodworks. The guy I was talking to at the time was obviously less than thrilled about me taking myself off the market, but then other guys who I hadn’t spoken to in quite some time, and even a few new ones, started popping up all over the place! My “Closed for Business” sign might as well have read “Grand Reopening.” The thirst was all too real.

Although, it could have also had something to do with the fact that I got my new 24” Indian Remy installed around that time. Nwords just lose their minds when they see all this extra fineness in these streets!

Stuntin’ is a habit. Get like me.

Anywho…

Lesson #2: I suck at dating.

Granted, I’m still very young and I have plenty of time to find “The One,” (although if you ask some of my family, I should already be halfway towards the altar) but there are some dating patterns that I need to fix immediately if I want any chance of being in a long-lasting relationship in the future. 

The main revelation I stumbled upon was that I tend to date beneath me, for lack of a better phrase.  I’ve been well aware for some time now that I’m the greatest person to currently walk the earth, so understandably it’s hard for me to find someone that’s actually on my level. But that doesn’t mean that I should settle for guys who don’t even realize how much of a privilege it is for me to even look in their direction, much less be with them. When I’m with someone, I always treat them like a king, thus I shouldn’t tolerate being treated like anything less than a queen.

Apparently this whole dating beneath me revelation wasn’t news to anyone else (I believe the exact words of both my LS and one of my former roommates were, “umm… duh! I could’ve told you that a long time ago!), but I guess I just had to figure that out for myself. Moving forward, I don’t think I’ll put myself in the same predicaments now that my tolerance for male nonsense has significantly diminished. Quality over quantity is definitely my new motto. Like my momma always says; when you know better, you do better.

And to be honest, I think I’m doing better already ;)

The Angst of a Great Mind

It’s time to get deep, y’all. Grab a lifejacket.

Last week, I had a BBM conversation with one of my friends that really made me think about the direction in which my life is headed.

I was complaining to him about how I hate my job, and to be frank, working in general. He asked me what I’d rather be doing, to which I responded:

“Honestly, the only thing I really want to do in life is to rule an African country. I’m just not sure what courses one takes in grad school to become a dictator.”

We both LOLed.

He then asked me if I really wanted to be a leader, or if I just wanted the title. I told him that it was a mixture of both; I know I’m far too great to be ordinary (peep the blog title), and I have a lot of great ideas that could take Africa to the next level, but I just need someone to give me a country first. My friend then replied something that screeched my Crimson and Cream painted power train to grinding halt:

“That’s often the angst a great mind feels; being restless. But what ARE you going to do about it?”

I really didn’t know how to answer that question. I was at a loss for words. And those who know me can tell you that doesn’t happen very often. At all.

In the days of my youth, as I transitioned from a cute and cuddly young lass to a bodacious teenage vixen, my focus continuously shifted. I went through phases of wanting to be a doctor, lawyer, psychologist, hair dresser, and chef, just to name a few. In college, I finally settled on being an economics major, but I didn’t really know what I wanted to with my degree. Now that I’ve graduated and have somewhat started my journey into the real world, I can honestly say that I still have absolutely no clue as to what I’m doing with my life.

But through all the different paths I’ve pursued during my relatively short tenure on this earth, the one thing that has remained constant is that feeling of restlessness.

As much as it pains me to say it, I think I’m lost.

So when my friend posed that question to me, I realized that I need to do something about it. Time is, as you Americans say, a-ticking. I’m certainly not getting any younger, and at this crossroads of my life, I must start laying the right foundation ASAPtually if I want money, power and respect by the age of 35.

But what ARE you going to do about it?

Good question.

After some contemplative meditation (which, for me, consisted of a nap and an Entourage marathon), I came to a few simple conclusions.

The first thing I obviously need to do is go to grad school. Nobody is going to let me rule any type of country with just one rinky-dink bachelor’s degree, no matter what institution I attended (SN: shoutout to Boston College!).

The second and far more difficult thing I must do is to expand my network. Now that there are all these dictator overthrows in the Middle East and North Africa, there has to be some new membership openings in the world dictator network! The slight problem with that is there aren’t too many female dictators out there, not to mention the fact that I don’t really know any dictators that could actually vouch for me, so I might have to get my thug status up some more before I think about infiltrating the system.

Or I might have to broaden my horizons a bit and network with people in a similar field, maybe a few military generals or senators.

Or presidents. #nbd

So if any of y’all know anyone in those fields, holla at a pimp.

As far as the rest of the world domination plan, those details are still a bit hazy. But I do know that however I decide to go about it, I will certainly be successful.

After all, I’m the Extraordinaire. Success is my only option.

-The Extraordinaire

One Day When I Was Walking, Walking to the Fair... (but not really)

Last Friday morning, as I walked the few blocks from the metro to my job, I was feeling myself HARD. Heads turned as sashayed down the street; my ensemble was on point (of course), and my 24” Indian Remy flowed beautifully in the early morning breeze. Birds were chirping, flowers were in full bloom. And it was payday! Couldn’t nobody tell me nothing! 

But my TGIF-induced euphoria soon came to an abrupt halt.

As I arrived at the corner of 19^th and Pennsylvania and waited for the light to change, a scruffy-looking homeless man approached me. He looked me up and down with disdain in his eyes and said snidely,

“Ya know, there’s a country that some U.S. troops set up for your kind back in the 1800s, called Liberia. Why don’t you go back there?”  

He didn’t wait for a response, but as he walked away, he muttered,

“Damn n-ggers are out here with jobs and sh-t, and I can’t even feed my f-ckin white family.”

…Sir.

First of all, you better be extremely grateful that I am now saved and sanctified, because if you had DARED to utter those words to me during my heathen days, it is very possible that those comments could’ve landed you in the hospital. Homeless or not, I wouldn’t have thought twice about giving your poverty-stricken self a swift round-house kick in the side of your head.

And my kicks are powerful. I took Tae Kwon Do.

Second of all, let’s be real. The fact that I’M in this country has ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY no correlation with the fact that YOU’RE homeless. Now, I don’t know anything about your background, but chances are your homelessness can be at least partially attributed to some piss-poor decision making on your part. Is it my fault that you decided to spend most of your earnings on alcohol (which you reeked of) or other illicit substances, which probably led to the downward spiral of you losing your job and your home?

Nah, that’s all you boo.  

Now, let’s look at the issue from a more statistical perspective, shall we? We shall.

Black people only make up roughly 12% of the country’s population, and while the national unemployment rate continues to hover around 9%, the unemployment rate for blacks is closer to 20%. 20%!! So although you clearly have it pretty bad, there are many more black people in your same position, if not worse off. To be really real, the simple fact that we’re black automatically means that we have it worse than you.

But let’s just suppose that every negro and negrette in America actually decided to go back to Africa. Yes, there would be fewer people in the country, thus naturally reducing the job to laborer ratio, but that would happen regardless of which segment of the population suddenly left, even if it were Asians, Latinos, or Italians. Let’s go even further and suppose that blacks made up a large enough segment of the population such that a mass exodus would decrease the job to laborer ratio to 1:1. Basic macroeconomic principle tells us that no matter the state of a nation’s economy, zero unemployment doesn’t actually exist, even if a market is in perfect equilibrium.  The theory of the frictional rate of unemployment proves that there will ALWAYS be a prevailing level of unemployment, simply because there are always people moving in and out of the labor force (i.e. recent graduates, people changing jobs, etc).

So, dear homeless man, if you haven’t gotten my point by now, let me sum it up for you.

Shut the hell up and have a seat. In fact, have two seats.

Because if you’re homeless now, your racist behind would probably be homeless in better times anyway.

I swear, all these enemies of progress just won’t let me be great!

-The Extraordinaire

"What's a Star if His Most Important Fan is Missing?" - An Ode to Aubrey Drake Graham

Those who know me know that I have an EXTRAORDINARY love for Drake. He is ERRYTHANG. Yes, errythang.

I get all verklempt and whatnot when I think about his greatness. My thug status flies straight out the window when discussing my beloved Aubrey’s meteoric rise to stardom. There was many an intoxicated night back in college when I literally shed tears when people said anything negative about my baby’s talent. It got kinda awkward after a while though, so I had to stop with the crying.

Anywho, as I was saying…

He is the sun, the moon, and the stars. He is the wind beneath my wings, the light of my life, the smooth peanut butter to my Smucker’s strawberry jelly.

You might be wondering why I love him so.

Oh, you weren’t? Well, I’ll tell you anyway. Have a seat.

From the very first time I laid my eyes on Aubrey Drake Graham in 2001, I knew he was the one for me. He captivated my young heart as Jimmy on Degrassi like no other character did. I laughed with him, I cried with him, I shared his pain as he became an invalid in season 4. I was a true ride or die.

So naturally, the day that I discovered his first mixtape back in 2007 was the day that I officially gave my heart to him.

His music speaks to me. I love him because he doesn’t pretend to be anything he isn’t. He doesn’t rap about slinging rocks on the corner or shooting n-words in a drive-by because that simply isn’t his life. And as a product of the private school, suburban DC circuit, I feels that. I could never really relate to most southern rappers because I don’t know a damn thing about a trap house or pouring out liquor for the fallen homies. But with Drake, there’s something in this work for everyone, from the cold-blooded killer to the Wall Street accountant. So come get some, why don’t you?

On second thought, don’t. I’m a jealous lover.

Not to mention the fact I’ve always had a thing for tragic mulattos. Nothing warms my thugged out soul more than a yellow man with feelings. It’s a beautiful thing. Le sigh.

I’ve already told the good Lord above that I do not want to leave this earth until I get a chance to meet Drake. Because I know that once we do, he’ll instantly fall in love with me and we’ll live happily ever after. No Cinderella.

And finally, as a testament to his EXTRAORDINARY greatness, I’d like to end this post with a few words from the wise philosopher Aubrey Graham for your viewing pleasure:

You wanna support me now that I’m outta the streets,

On my way like I can’t be beat.

Where were you when I was rollin’ in a wheel chair?

It’s Young Money haters, so I really truly don’t care.

My real fans understand through think and thin,

Not just gonna throw me in the trash can. 

Well said sir, well said.

-The Extraordinaire

And So It Begins...

Allow me to introduce myself.

I’m the Extraordinaire. Of what, you ask?

Of everything.

I’m truly good at everything I do. And since I’m African, I can pretty much do anything. I’m every woman. It’s all in me.

You might already be thinking, “Wow, this girl is really full of herself.”

I get that a lot.

To be honest, I am full of myself. But I don’t really see how that’s a bad thing. I think it’s important to know your worth. High self-esteem is an essential ingredient of success. How do you expect to become a CEO or boss of anyone if you’re softer than a cashmere throw? You can’t. If you’re a pushover, it’s only a matter of time before you run your business into the ground.

You know what low self-esteem gets you? Poverty. And AIDS. #truetalk.

So even if you know you’re about as bland as a value-pack of original flavored rice cakes, it would probably be in your best interest not to let others know. Because you know what happens to rice cakes? They get eaten. And do you know who eats rice cakes? Angry vegans. I’m sure you don’t want to go out like that. It’s not a good look.

So if you don’t take away anything else from this, remember: Carry yourself like you’re the inventor of all things good, and eventually people will believe you. If you command respect, you get respect.

That will probably be the best advice you’ll get all year. You’re welcome. Thank me later.

Moving on…

This blog is going to be a chronicle of the life and times of an extraordinary figure (i.e. me). I’ll make you laugh, make you cry, and I might even make you angry. But I certainly won’t be boring. I’m too extraordinary for that.

So come along for the ride, won’t you? The view is great from here J  

-The Extraordinaire