When my first relationship finally flamed out, I was absolutely distraught, as most men are when going through their first breakup. “Children in the Congo will never know pain like this,” I thought to myself. After all, I had just spent an entire *SIX MONTHS* with somebody who I actually believed was put on this Earth just for me. God had sent down to me from Heaven this one particular vagina, and I would never need to seek another again. Wrong. AF. She was from the streets, and to the streets, she would return. In case it needs to be said, I’m kidding. Today, I’m a fan of hers, and I root for her to win. But, let me tell you, I wasn’t the biggest fan of hers for quite some time. For close to a decade, she was the fuckin’ Anaheim Ducks to me (I’m a Kings fan). A lot of my early twenties were filled with unsuccessful attempts in bars or clubs to find another girl. Unbeknownst to these girls who could care less, I had ulterior motives. The reason for these attempts was so I could finally announce to everyone on social media that I was over the first. I can remember one time when rumors were traveling back home to me about what she was doing at her home (the streets). It was infuriating and humiliating to catch wind that pretty much everyone knew the relationship was over except for me. I felt every negative emotion there was to feel. There was once a vase that existed on a nightstand beside the couch. It exists no longer. That vase shattered off the concrete in the backyard after I heard the rumors. RIP. Another time, while in the same state of denial, I remember continuously ringing this female Corey Perry’s phone. Finally, after about twenty unanswered calls, a group of her friends answered the phone and pretended to be unable to speak English. With tears streaming down my face, I shamefully asked, “You don’t want me anymore?” Then, of course, there was the time when I accepted the reality of the situation and bawled in the arms of my Pop. Welcome. You have now entered The Cringe Chronicles.
I told myself after I came to a more reasonable frame of mind that I would never allow my behavior to become so cringeworthy ever again. An unattainable goal and a goal that I have not obtained. My most recent post on this website is my first go at poetry. We are already within field goal range of cringe. For the longest time, I felt that poetry was for the, well, “anti-hetero,” people let us say. Yet here I am in 2021, writing poetry. Poetry is a lot different from some of the other art forms in which I have tried my hand. In those same delusional twenties, I thought I had BARS. There are links out there to audio of me rapping. Links that I will not provide, but you could probably find them. The difference between writing poetry and writing lyrics seems to me that with poetry, the mission is to say so much by saying so little, while also maintaining a level of mystery or anonymity. With writing lyrics, you have a whole forty-eight lines to get a message across, and the premise in rap music is generally “me-me-me.” No anonymity whatsoever. In my case, it is pretty evident what it is that I’m writing about. If you know, you know. Anyway, I had a fair amount of fear and anxiety over whether to release the poem on the website or not. Quite possibly, my biggest apprehension about sharing it was how I would look in the eye of the public. Remember, I had vowed to never be caught out here looking funny in the light ever again. Well, if I’m out here writing poems about an ex-girlfriend while she is busying getting her back blown out by somebody, I do not think I could look funnier in the light than that. Admittedly, an immature take on the matter, but it is how I felt. Either that or my feelings have very little to do with what (or who) she is or is not doing (although, probably something to do with that, too), and everything to do with coming face to face with how I felt historically, which would be that feeling of not being good enough. Ah. There is the answer to the aforementioned question. The most cringe-worthy idea is the feeling that I am or was not good enough and that somebody else is.
Still, I released the poem to the public anyhow. I reckoned it was a way to combat that fear. A realization that I concerned myself with the thoughts and opinions of other people. More importantly, with the thoughts and opinions of people who are long gone, though it pains me to say. I’ve mentioned in previous writings (notably “Luchadores Need to Stop Wearing Masks”) that announcing to the World that we don’t care what people think is just grandstanding. Of course, we care what other people think about us. It just boils down to picking and choosing who those people are going to be. For me, it’s my family, the people involved in my recovery, and friends who are on my team. Those are the groups of people I want to think highly of me. Why should we give a shit about what someone on the other team thinks?
Here is the silver lining if you are like me and have ever had cringeworthy behavior: Human existence is one giant cringe. We even cringe at the success humanity has had in the past. I can almost guarantee you that Jay-Z is appalled at the first sixteen he ever wrote. A decade from now, he will probably look back appalled at the verses he wrote today. How many times have we looked at pictures of fashion from yesteryear and asked, “What the hell were you guys wearing!?” They thought they were drippin’ back then, the same way we think we got the drip now. About eleven years ago, I snuck out in the middle of the night without telling anybody and drove about 1,000 miles to chase down a girl. It said on her MySpace page that all she wants is a man who will drive 100 MPH on the freeway for her. Well, I did that. The plan was to pop up on her, and I just *knew* that she was going to be so pleasantly surprised. When I showed up at her work to surprise her, the employees basically told me, “Get the fuck out of here, you creep!” Cringe. So freaking cringe. Although today I laugh at shit like that, I swear to you I could vomit when I reflect on how cringey I was. I’m grateful for how much of a douchebag I was. The same way that I eventually will be grateful that I wrote some fear-ridden, anti-hetero, cringey poem. Without these actions full of cringe, there is no WYSB, and the Josh of today doesn’t exist. Aren’t you guys all glad I’m here? I’ll always be someone whom you can point to and laugh.
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