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there is no way you are actually black dude. you seem to be pushing way too hard at a stereo type.
stereotypes can hold more truth than you'd expect. a lot of black folks do eat fried chicken, catfish, and mac and cheese. though, it's more of a southern thing than racial and more traditional than stereotypical. you're a jackass either way for trying to call someone out on it, especially when living in america. you imbibe and reflect both every day whether you notice it or not.
Good call on the 'southern thing' comment... I'm in the deep south, and fried chicken, catfish and mac n' cheese are staple foods. Just to knock the racial stereotypes, watermelon and cracklins are enjoyed by myself and lots of other fairer-skinned people down here, too... I can't say I know of any food that could honestly be used to characterize a specific race down here.
On topic:
- I can't listen to an acoustic guitar being played if I can hear the musician's fingers sliding on the strings, nor can I touch guitar strings (the bigger ones with the ribbed texture).
- Related to that, I can't touch certain types of nylon. The feel and sound of it rubbing against itself send a shiver down my spine.
- I've developed a great deal of animousity towards the institution of Christianity, as well as religion and pseudo-spiritualism in general.
- When I was in third grade, I shot and killed a Cardinal, and felt extremely horrible about it. I never used a gun to kill an animal again, but became a pretty decent target shooter.
-Last one:
The last time I took acid (nearly a decade ago) was at a little get together that my girlfriend and I had at our apartment. We weren't heavy trippers, once every three or four months max. We had invited about three others over for an evening of a hit-and-a-half each, some weed, some blonde Lebanese hash, some boxed wine, some sci fi movies, some huge soap bubbles (try it, it's fun as shit), and some friendly conversation. For several hours, we had an incredibly great time... our invited guests decided that they were going to walk over to the bar strip (we lived in the middle of downtown) which was cool, because me and m'lady were hinting to each other that we were feeling a bit frisky. Our friends left, and my girl and I were both set to have one more glass of wine each and have a little fun with each other.
No sooner had I poured our wine, I heard a knock at the back door of our apartment. Of no vital importance: the front door of our apartment faced downtown, facing the public... we never answered that door when we were having get togethers (we weren't ever worried about cops, because we always had very quiet and small events... usually we were worried that it might be visits from our friendly but very "morally upstanding" landlord or someone from work who might be walking around downtown). I didn't like being seen while I was tripping by people that might see acid as something worse than it is, if that makes any sense. The backdoor was usually used by one of our dozen-or-so neighbors, or by friends who just knew which door to knock on, so I answered it without hesitation.
When I answered the door, I greeted one of my neighbors, a hard working and really nice single mom with three kids, who lived in a duplex behind our apartment. She was visibly upset, and I think I might have "read" her as more upset than she was because I was starting to peak.
Three weeks prior, she had bought three cute little baby ducklings and one energetic puppy for her sons (a 12, 8, and 4 year old that I adored and treated like little brothers). It turns out that the puppy had gotten out of the duplex and had managed to work its way into the flimsy cage that she kept the ducklings in. She managed to get the puppy out of the cage and back into her place, but when she saw blood on her hands, she panic'd and rushed over to our apartment to see if I could look at the ducks because she was afraid to peer into the cage (she had a really frail constitution, and couldn't bring herself to shine a flashlight into the cage to see what condition the ducks were in). She had the flashlight in her hand, so I took it while my girl talked to her to help soothe her.
I walked over to the duplex with a bad twist in my gut... I was hitting my peak, and wanted to sober myself up but I couldn't. I remember being bummed because I always took great measures to make sure that whenever I took acid, I was always surrounded by fun shit to do and watch... no surprises, just a good healthy trip out of my gourd.
Anyway, I got to the cage and flashed the light inside... one of the ducklings was perfectly fine (and spazzing out) and one of the ducklings was slightly injured, with little gashes on his head some injuries to his breast. The last one though... the last one was seriously fucked up. He was covered in blood; unable to move anything but a wing and his bill, and his neck was wrenched in a very unnatural way.
Bummed as all fuck and at this point completely tripping balls, I yelled out to the mom that one of the ducks needed to be euthanised... she replied back instantly, asking me if I could do it.
Being the only guy in the vicinity (and the guy that had to assess the situation), I sort of knew that I'd have to do it. I gently picked up the little guy and walked towards a certain street lamp that would give me some light as well as get me out of the view of the mom or any of her kids in case they woke up and came outside. Under the light I could see that the poor little thing had vertebrae coming out of his neck, and in even more detail I could see him struggling to move the little bits that he still had control of. Now, I'm from and in the south, but I didn't grow up on a farm or anything, so I did the best I could.
Still being gentle, I cradled the duck's breast, tucking my hand underneath him the same way a dude would hold a football if he were going for a touchdown. With my other hand, I arched my wrist back so that the duck's head was in my palm, it's bill just touching the underside of my wrist. With a firm grip, I twisted both of my arms as quickly and as powerfully as I could, breaking his neck with such force that it completely severed and left me with a slightly writhing body clutched under my left arm, and a little duck's head strongly clutched in my right hand... the neck hung from below my grip with muscles splayed and wet.
I rushed over to a nearby line of garbage cans, opened one with the hand holding the duck's head, and placed both portions of him into a cereal box that was sitting on top of one of the bags. I shut the garbage lid, went back to my apartment, walked passed the mom and my girl, took a shower, and never took acid again.