The 2019 Bored Ambition Master Plan

It’s finally the end of 2018 and a few days before my 30th birthday, and as many of my ilk – the goal oriented yet jaded, underemployed super millenials- have done or are in the process of doing, I have devised my master plan for 2019, the list of hopefully attainable goals that I will achieve within the upcoming 365 days. Because I am such believer in sharing is caring, I am going to outline to you all what exactly those goals all, so that maybe you, my audience, can keep me accountable, because remember, these goals affect the trajectory that this site will go in.

Without further ado:

Continue reading “The 2019 Bored Ambition Master Plan”

I’m Sick of Nostalgia

Part of The Dirty 30

This post is going to be hypocritical, as I too have waxed poetic over the favorite things from my childhood. Power Rangers, Space Cases, the Fox Kids weekday and weekend lineup, Nickelodeon on Friday and Saturday nights, the beginnings of both Cartoon Network and the Disney Channel, BET, MTV’s Rock N Jock Baseball, Daria, you get the idea. The 1990s were a hell of a decade in human history, and those of us who lived as children in them are now approaching or are in our 30s.

We washed y’all.

What comes with age and the further progression of time is the tendency to look back fondly on those years; I happen to see those years with a golden aura around them. Considering the state that this country is in, the future is bleak and the present is complete bullshit; therefore, many of us, aided and abetted by like minds on social media are able to relive those moments from our childhood and reminisce about how good everything was back then and how we wish we could go back and have it all be so simple.

Fuck that.

I don’t want to go back and be a child in the 1990s. I don’t want to to it. I refuse.

For one thing, common sense says that shit was just as foul then as they are now. We just had a few radicalized white men send mail bombs and open fire in synagogue recently; in the 1990s, we had Waco, Ruby Ridge and the Oklahoma City Federal building bombing. The government fucked up the Middle East then just like they continue to do now. The nations of Africa were still struggling from the effects of colonization then and now and Black Americans people were no closer to being “there” that we are now. People were getting killed every fucking day. We just barely had a 24-hour news cycle reporting on it and grown folk didn’t allow us to be in their whack ass business.

Speaking of grown folks…listen. I know paying bills and being responsible sucks. I know. But if that’s what I have to do so that I don’t have to depend on grown folks to look out for my well-being, then so be it. I don’t want to go back to being a dependent. If that’s your MO, then by all means, go back and do it. I’m good luv, enjoy.

Finally, how much of the shit from the 90s did I actually enjoy and didn’t just watch because it was expected that I watch and enjoy them? I just recently revealed that I didn’t like Living Single. A show about a group of women living in a 90s kind of world and glad to have one another just didn’t mesh with me. That shit was on every week in my household though because it was a Black ass show. Maybe I’m simple. Even the stuff that I did enjoy, I’m not about to sit and watch that shit today. I’m not going out of my way to find or wait for The Splat on Teen Nick to air the Mega Diaper Babies episode of Rugrats. The reruns of Martin and The Wayans Bros. on MTV and BET were cool for all of five seconds. I stopped somewhere in the middle of Power Rangers Zeo on Netflix and haven’t been back yet. It’s not just a time thing, it’s a I don’t care to relive this shit thing and also a I just don’t enjoy consuming television and films like I used to* thing.

We get so wrapped up in the past and and remember things as being so much better than they actually were. That shit does not do you any favors and if you’re someone like me who is prone to bouts of depression, then you don’t need to linger on things that you cannot go back and experience again, or change. Again, I know the present sucks and it doesn’t look like there’s too much to look forward to. Truthfully, we’re kind of stuck in that regard. The past is gone, the present is a mess and the future is uncertain. For many of us, nostalgia is a salve, soothing over the current battle wounds, carrying us to relief in the future. Maybe I’m just a sucker for pain.

 

 

 

*How am I going to be a filmmaker without wanting to watch films and TV shows though?
Follow the photog on Instagram @bladvagacian

 

 

Cover Letter 3

Dear Mr./Ms. I’m Too Good to Tell You I Won’t Hire You,
I am writing in response to the job that you’ve posted on this job board. I see that the job has been posted for 30+ days, so you must not be finding what you want, or are just doing this for reporting purposes and will close this job without hiring, so I figure I don’t have anything to lose.
I say that because I don’t have the experience you’re looking for. Instead of spending the last five years doing what you’re looking for, I’ve spent the last five years taking various levels of abuse from customers and incompetent managers alike. While I may not be able to do many of the listed job functions without a bit of training that your organization no longer provides, I can communicate effectively, without breaking out into curse words; I am able to find busy work to occupy eight hours of time since you don’t like for people to work from home or have a four-hour work day; my mind is sharp until I have a mental breakdown and I’m a quick learner, but y’all don’t really care about that shit.
Anyway, my customer service laden resume is enclosed and I typed out all of this shit in the application again. If you made it this far, congratulations. I am looking forward to your computer generated rejection email.
Regards,
D. Simpson

Cover Letter 2

Dear Mr./Ms. Fuck Face McGee,

I’m interested in the job you’ve posted.

However, I don’t have any of the experience you’re looking for, nor the education. But I have balls. I’m a quick learner if you’re actually willing to train, or hell, give me a book to study. Help me help you. I don’t want to go back to customer service, those people are insane. And I keep getting pulled back in, it’s like Pookie from New Jack City, they keep calling me and calling me.

Anyway, just consider it. You might be surprised.

Regards,

Me

Cover Letter 1

This is the first in a series of cover letters I wish I could send to employers, and obviously the angriest one.

Dear Mr./Ms. Whoever You Are,

I’m not really excited about this opening for this position that you have posted, but this is the game we have to play.
I don’t have any of the experience nor education that you are seeking. I got a degree where my options for employment with it are perpetual student and I don’t want to do that because there’s no money in that, and the whole point of me even writing this and wasting both of our time is so that I can get money. It’s a degree that I got so that I could have a degree, so that I wouldn’t be stuck to one thing for the rest of my life while I chased dreams of a life of leisure, I mean, filmmaking.
All of my experience involves me taking bullshit from other people and judging by the vague ass description of the job you posted, I feel like I will be able to do that for you in spades. Need me to get yelled at by angry people? I got you. Need me to do busy work to justify you paying me to sit or stand around for eight hours? I got you. Do you need a face for your customers to slap in lieu of slapping yours? I got you. I can do all of that shit without training me or having me learn on the job, because you don’t want to do that anymore.
But I don’t have 80 years of experience in filing documents or answering phones for a particular self-important individual or using a scanner/copier/face or being a typist or running after kids, but I know I can do this goofy shit. Matter of fact, I received an award for Excellence in Doing Goofy Ass Shit from the National Association for Leveraging Goofy Ass Shit (NALGAS) two years in a row.
That’s on my resume, which is also attached to the application that you still made me fill out with all the shit on my resume. I would like to interview as soon as you receive this application, because I’m broke and candles, food, crochet and tarot don’t pay for themselves. You have my info, call me.
Regards,
Disgruntled Rapper

 

I Don’t Know What I Want to Do

Picture perfect, I paint a perfect picture*…

I live in the South now. Louisiana to be precise. It’s a long way away from the creative bubble that Los Angeles, my hometown, is. I thought I wanted to be part of that bubble and for some time, I worked to gain access to that bubble – I minored in film and television at UCLA, attended a trade program in new media production after college, spent countless hours, sacrificed numerous trees in writing down my ideas, moved around on the outskirts of Hollywood. Now those pages sit colleting dust, my Canon T4i that I received as part of my tuition package sits on a shelf, this blog even sits unattended to for nearly a year….

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Continue reading “I Don’t Know What I Want to Do”

I Never Wanted to Be the Quirky Black Girl, but Here The Fuck I Am

Apologies for the expletive in the title. I know some of y’all still follow that raggedy sense of respectability and whatnot.

Look at the featured picture* and tell me that’s not what you might think of when you hear the phrase “quirky Black girl.” I challenge you to give me another answer.

I resent that phrase and you want to know why? Not only is it another box that people try to put people in, but because once upon a time quirky wasn’t the word that people were using. Quirky is a cute word, not quite an Instagram model, but a girl next door. It conjures up images of birds and running in fields of grass and AfroPunk and pins and buttons and pink colored hair and interests that lay in the nerd realm or a carefree sense of being. Quirky is blue skies and dewdrops on grass and a fresh spring breeze. Quirky is summer in the city. It’s spending time “finding yourself” and tumblr accounts and blue checks on Twitter.

Fuck that.

Once upon a time, quirky was weird. Weird stinks. Weird is overbites and under bites and cystic acne. Weird is repulsive. Weird is thin, oily hair and wrestling t-shirts and nasal voices. Weird is surprisingly masculine. Weird is misunderstood. Weird doesn’t have too many friends. Weird grows up and has a constant chip on its shoulder and possibly seeks authority so that it can inflict the same pain and suffering onto those that once inflicted pain and suffering on it. Weird can’t relate. Weird is out of the loop. Weird is a damp basement with one light where a body might be buried in the concrete floor.

I was weird and I didn’t want to be that shit.

I wore that shit like a scarlet letter and I tried to wash it off as much as possible. I started cursing a lot, tried my hardest not to be a dweeb, tried avoiding dating fellow dweebs, and you know what? That shit don’t work. I couldn’t stop being weird. I was born in that shit, baptized in the waters of Lake Minneweirdo. Now I’m just a weird ass Black girl that curses a lot.

So when my sister called me quirky recently, I flinched. That shit hit me to the core because today’s quirky was yesterday’s weird and pre-29-year-old me still holds on to that stigma of being a weirdo and fuck you motherfuckers for celebrating the shit you used to shit on, where were you when I was running through the schoolyards pretending I was a Martian because they didn’t have one on Space Cases? Where you ass was at in 2003? You wasn’t with me shooting in the gym!

So if that’s what y’all want to call it now, I’ma be quirky. I’ma be weird. I can’t wash that shit away. No amount of dick weed booze self-hatred and denial is going to get rid of it, in fact, it makes it even more apparent. I can’t be anything else than what I am and as much as I have tried to be anything else, this is my lane, this is my niche. I don’t want to be anything but this. If you want to call it by a cute little name, then so be it. Just run me my blue check so I can start gatekeeping this shit while claiming to be for the culture.

 

*Follow the photographer here: https://www.instagram.com/melodyjacob1/

*Reggae Horn* I’M BACK!

I’ve been gone for a minute, but I’m back with a whole heap of new posts for your reading pleasure, including:

  • Why the label “quirky Black girl” irks me to no end
  • Why I’ve finally accepted that I don’t know what I want to do
  • The cover letters I wish I could send to employers
  • Why I’ve currently thrown the WWE in the bushes
  • Why I’m trying to throw Twitter in the bushes
  • And much more!!!

Live from a bayou deep in the heart of the Louisiana Territory, this is Bored Ambition!!!

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Just imagine that this says Bored Ambition

#InternetKilledtheRadioStar: Lose Control

This video felt like an event.

Missy was at the top of her game coming into her sixth album The Cookbook. Ciara was coming off an impressive debut season with her album Goodies. Fatman Scoop was still yelling over records from here to London.

Brings a tear to my eye how fast time passes.

This is when they still invested a ton of money into music videos. The production design, the concept, the dance sequence. I don’t know if we deserved Missy’s entire je ne sais quoi. She was a visionary. I feel kinship with Missy. She gets it.