If I were a boxer...

I like to think that I’d be like Joe Louis.

Even after he won the Heavyweight title and became a hero in the eyes of every Black American in 1937, he secretly hung his head in shame. Even while shaking the hands of the children who looked up to him as a god. The punches from the man who had defeated him the year before could still be felt. He walked the Earth in the shoes of a titan, all the while feeling like the title and praise were not rightfully his to hold.

"Only thing I remembered saying then was, 'Bring on Max Schmeling. Bring him on.'"

The Curse. 1918−2004

What else would make a Brother willingly jump off of a light pole like he had all the faith in the world that the drunkards down below would catch him?

Sox, baby...that's what.

But my money says dude is lying somewhere in intensive care right now.

Welcome back.

After my four week “vacation” I’m back in the office and talking with one of my least favorite co-workers. To be fair, she’s a very nice person but she’s just one of those people who I would consider to be my exact opposite. And sometimes being within earshot of her takes a little more effort for me than it does with other people. So, I’m catching up on the past month and I glance at her desk and see that she’s using a reference book that I happen to use. I look closer and see that the book she’s using is actually MY book. Now, I don’t mind sharing what I have, but I don’t remember her asking or me even giving it to her. And this is more than a “ok, who took my stapler?” type thing, because I paid for this book out of my pocket….not company dough. So, I’m standing there thinking that while I was away she just took it upon herself to browse through my sh*t and help herself like I was dead or something. It’s a shame to think that if someone wanted to go on leave without coming back to find that their office had been pillaged they’d have to resort to setting up booby traps to deter the guilty party with a semi-severed finger or a dart in the neck. Yes, a damn ugly, buck-toothed, bastardized, kool-aid with no sugar shame. It’s right up there with sneaking into the break room, opening up the fridge, and eating someone else’s lunch. Well, I’ll just wait and see how long it takes for my book to come back to me, but in the meantime…I’m ready for a vacation. Oh yeah, I forgot…I just had one. Ok then, I’ll just go to the break room. It will be interesting to see what’s in the fridge.

It seems...

…every time I solve a problem or overcome a challenge, another one presents itself.

At times I feel like an automotive plant assembly robot that is responsible for attaching front bumpers for twelve hours a day. As soon as my feet touch the cold bedroom floor the switch is flipped, the lights crack and hum, and the cycle begins. Stopping for a break is not an option because a poor performance will only affect the rest of the production line. So, a five minute rest turns into watching a little TV at the end of the day to trying to catch up with things on the weekend to "I can't believe the year is almost over". Right now, my oil is leaking, my gears are grinding, there's smoke everywhere, and on top of that the monthly quota has just been dramatically increased. I continue to squeak through each day while holding on to the belief that if I keep the line moving steadily until the whistle blows that one day I’ll finally be able to wake up from a good night's sleep and start breathing freely rather than automatically.