The Scribe's Slab

Ever Since I Was A Shorty Flash Fiction Series Soundtrack

Book coming soon….

Wearing Neckties with Oxford Shirts: It’s All About Texture

Last week a Trunk Club member emailed his stylist, asking:

Neckties with oxford shirts: yea or nay?

According to prevailing fashion rules, the answer would most likely be “nay.” Oxford shirts, the thinking goes, are generally considered casual, while neckties fit into the “formal / dress” category. The thing is, we don’t particularly care about fashion rules. (We’re the people who advocate wearing white pants all year round, after all.)

Instead of hard-and-fast rules, we prefer general guidelines for dressing well. Here’s our thinking around oxford shirts and ties: As long as the two items share a similar texture, we vote “yea.”

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(Source: trunkclub)

I gave myself my very first nickname, because I am that motherfucker. No, really, I fuck mothers, and yours might be next. Anyway, they call me Machete. The name stuck. Go figure, I’m a fucking genius, and you should know this. Yeah, that rhymed…and you liked it. No, no…You love it. Because I’m what bitches love; you know when you don’t give a fuck about a bitch, that’s when they love you the most. I got six kids and four pussies that they came out of. My name? Fuck a name, yo. 5738321. I rep that. All my niggas on the block, throw my numbers up when they partying, until I get out.

From being locked inside of this box, to rotting in a pine one. I thought about ingesting pine oil, but no cannulae to do it. Well, there probably are, in the infirmary, so maybe I just don’t have the cojones? That’s bullshit, because I’m a rider, nigga. Never been afraid to take a purse off that old lady; or pull a trigger on a motherfucker who decided to fight back. Fuck your dreams, because the fact is, I’m a nightmare.

And my daughter can’t stand me. Her mother keeps talking about how I left her; and maybe that’s why she’s cancer-free. I don’t get it, though. She’s still undergoing chemotherapy.

Cleaning me out—the Cancer. The way that this suicide note has been going so far, I didn’t think that I would be staring face to face with the face responsible for this damage. They call me Machete—and I lived up to it every day those fiends needed my fix. Out there like a real Dragonfly Jonez, chopping up that….

Yay! For me—clarity. Knowing that my baby won’t bring the man up here, which she intends to marry. My son walking her down the aisle and giving her away—he said he’d record their vows and send the videotape. I remember my wedding day, and I couldn’t feel my face, let alone remember the taste of the cake.

Now, I’m 48.

Now, solitary confinement is where I escape to when my mind needs a safe place. It’s kind of counterintuitive, but the darkness can drown out the voices in your head, if you let it. They even fuck with you a special way down here. They put all the things needed to escape, lying on the long slab of wall across from us. Sometimes, you can hear some of the others trying really hard to reach “The Kit”; leading to crying, then delirium.

Hell is other people. Or Hell.