amoureaux -

As devastating as it is to me, and everyone else who admired Michael Jackson, this has been one shock-filled nightmare. But there’s something I’d like to address.

It’s how he died, exactly.

I’m not sure about the rest of you but I just feel like something isn’t right. After the ambulances arrived to pick up Michael and bring him to UCLA, Dr. Conrad Murray fled the scene, and actually left his car behind while doing so. Not sure where he went, but I do know he picked up a criminal attorney during his disappearing act. The Robbery and Homicide Deparment of the LAPD picked up the case, and from then on, Dr. Conrad Murray began trying to justify acts no one was asking about, yet.  According to the 911 call, Dr. Murray was performing CPR on Michael in his bed, and he had a faint pulse.

You do not perform CPR on a patient with a faint heart beat, and you damn sure don’t perform CPR on a bed. It has to be on a hard surface, like a floor, in order to be successful.  In this case, though, considering Michael had a heart beat, CPR was completely unneccesary. He just was not breathing, and needed simple pulminary resuscitation, not cardiopulmonary. He also needed an ambulance to be called immediately and not thirty minutes later. According to the call to 911, Dr. Murray had been trying to get him to respond for quite some time, something like an hour.

They’re also reporting that Michael received a massive dose of Demoral before he went unconscious and stopped breathing. Dr. Murray should have most certainly had Narcam on him, but did not. Narcam is required to be on hand when dealing with a patient who has been given any narcotics, in case of an overdose. Dr. Murray also did not have a defilibrator, which should have also, been at hand, in the event that Michael’s heart were to stop.
When EMT’s arrived, they wanted to pronounce Michael dead on the scene. His heart was no longer beating and he was not responding to CPR.  EMT’s were going to call the coroner’s office to have them pick up the body but Dr. Murray would not let them, he insisted they keep trying, and he insisted they bring him to UCLA.  Good samaritan, or guilt/fear because he knows what he did?

Now Dr. Murray is denying he gave Michael a shot of Demoral because let’s face it, that’s what’s going to come back on the first and second autopsy, and if it does, then he’s in deep shit. He’s also insisting he is not at fault for the death of Michael.  His lawyer released a statement saying that Michael’s bed was ‘firm’ and Dr. Murray placed his hand behind his back while administering CPR. Folks, don’t believe it. A hand behind a back and a firm bed isn’t going to do shit for anyone in cardiac arrest. Also, he addressed the bed problem, but why didn’t he answer why this quack was performing CPR on a patient with a FAINT HEART BEAT?
The stories, the statements, and the actions do not add up. If it walks like a duck, sounds like a duck, looks like a duck, quack quack.

I had just began falling asleep when my mother burst into my room and woke me up. She told me Michael was being rushed to the hospital, and I immediately turned the news on.

Mouth to mouth resusitation, sounding heart beats
intimidations

Michael, are you okay? (I don’t know) Michael, are you okay? (We don’t know)

I’d never in my life given a shit about anything that TMZ has ever had to say but I was on their site like white on rice. Was talking to Cetta, showing her stuff, when Michael took the internet with him, so to speak.

I was frantic. You see, some people may not understand. I’m going to state this as blatantly as I can. If you were to read the case files, if you were to NOT believe the media hype, you would know Michael Jackson was not guilty of the accusations. Go read the case files yourself. Don’t believe me, go read them. That’s what I did. I knew that since he was odd, PLUS he was Michael Jackson, they would use this for ratings. So I went directly to the released file cases and I made my own unbiased decision based on the background records of the parents and the statement of the child. Not to mention the phone call from the father to his lawyer saying they’d definitely be the ruin of Michael Jackson, and they’d be getting a lot of money out of it.

I stuck by this man just like his music, his voice, his lyrics stuck by me when I was a beaten and abused little girl. You see, I could hide under my bed with a boombox, put in his Dangerous casette, and I felt like I had a friend. I grew up with Michael Jackson’s voice keeping me company. He was the first artist I ever heard, his lyrics were the first I ever sung, his dances were the first I tried to do. I watched his videos, the ones with him and kids, and I wished I was there. He did things for children the majority of this fucking world wouldn’t do. He’s paid for cancer treatments, he’s donated a ridiculous amount to foundations, he’s done absolutely all he as a man, and a GOOD one, could do. So the fuck what if he looked weird, get over it, there’s a lot of weird looking motherfuckers, some of them being yourselves, but you don’t hear me saying shit.

I am devastated. I’ve been crying on and off since the headline “Michael Jackson, Dead at 50″ hit me like a fucking Mack truck. I refuse to believe the media hype, I refuse to give in to the pedophile bullshit, and if you have something to say about it you can either 1) keep it to yourself or 2) get disowned, because I’m really not about to hear/deal/put up with the bullshit. The man’s body is in a coroner’s office being chopped into unrecognizable pieces and this is upsetting to me, so if you have the audacity, the balls, the courage to say something like that to -me- after reading this, we will have some fucking problems. I don’t care about your opinions, keep them to yourself, if you can’t respect the man, then just shut the fuck up.

I’m taking this loss like I’d take a loss of a good friend because that’s what he was to me when I was little and had no one in the world. All I had was him and I’m hurting. I don’t expect understanding and I don’t expect anyone to give a fuck but I do expect respect.

Will You Be There?

Long live the King.

I grew up pretty much a girl amongst the dudes. I couldn’t make myself care about the same shit other chicks cared about. I didn’t wanna talk about sex, I didn’t wanna talk about love, and I didn’t see the need for the typical girly best friend relationship.

Didn’t change until I was fifteen and I met this one chick at a party. October 2004. We were all in the living room passing blunts around and Knuck If You Buck came on. If you know me, you already know my initial reaction. I started spitting the shit! But that was cut short when I realized I wasn’t the only girl, for once, reacting to a crazy crunk song like a dude would. It piqued my interest and for the first time, I felt a connection, like I just met somebody I could really be down with, that was of the same sex as I. And sho nuff, from that night on, we were inseperable. She got so close to me, she was my sister in my eyes.

But now fast forward to 2007 and the bitch wants to fuck my first love, that I just started seeing again. I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming. She had fucked every dude I ever been with. Perhaps it was the fact that the other guys, I didn’t really care about, and I went with the old notion, ‘bros before hoes.’ Whatever the reason, the bitch crossed the line. I was never open to anybody enough for them to cut me deep… or I thought I wasn’t til she told me he was coming over to chill with her the next day. Commense the breakdown. Betrayal of epic proportions.

It’s 2009 and I still think about it. Probably cause I find myself without a best friend and I ain’t got nobody to go kick it with on slow days. Maybe cause I’m still bitter. Regardless, I just felt the need to go over my thoughts from a conversation I had last night and express myself.

I’m not sure there’s a crumb of trust left in me. I wanna meet new people and make new friends but I can’t bring myself to fuckin’ do it.

Bitches, man.

I have never had any pass of any sort because I’m white which just fucks my head up cause I hear it all the time. It’s cause I’m white. What’s cause I’m white!?? I can’t get a fuckin’ job, muthafuckas won’t hire me for SHIT, and I make SURE I check WHITE-CAUCASIAN on them applications in HOPES that SOMEONE is right about this so called “white advantage” but it AIN’T WORKING! Should I circle it in yellow highlighter? Am I doing it wrong?

And what does ‘the man’ have to do to get a scholarship in this bitch? Or fuck, could someone at least go find a rich father for me that every white girl has behind her? Cause I’d really like it if someone would come register my car or drop a fuckin grand or two on me for no reason. Just pay my damn way through college. Also, does it deduct from my white people points that I don’t have blonde hair and blue eyes? And where can I buy some cheap Abercrombie, cause my ass is too broke to actually go to the mall.

But since I’m poor, I must be trailer trash. Cause white people can’t be anything but either a) trailer trash or b) ‘the man.’

If this is true then can I get some free beer and a rifle from my redneck homies out there? Confederate flag waving muthafuckas, where you at?

CAUSE AINT NO GOD DAMNED WHITE PERSON EVER DONE SHIT FOR ME LIKE TALKING ABOUT FOR ME TO BE OVER-PRIVILEGED OR BETTER THAN ANYONE ELSE.

It’s not about racism. It’s called classism. Get in where you fit in, don’t you know?

PS: I’m of Irish and Scottish descent, and my people were not here during slavery. SO COULD YOU PLEASE STOP ACCUSING MY ANCESTORS? THEY WERE A LITTLE BIT TOO BUSY HAVING THEIR HOUSES BURNT DOWN AND THEIR FAMILIES MASSACRED TO BE BUYIN SOME SLAVES IN AMERICA.

THANK you and please LEAVE ME TF OUT OF THIS SHIT!

You were my hero, kind of. You were the mom that I didn’t have, the best friend I didn’t have. You taught me how to love myself as a young woman, you taught me how to see beauty in myself. I could tell you anything and you never said shit to anyone. You’d buy me whatever I wanted if it made me confident.

Then you started smoking crack.

You know, I was never new to the drug scene. I lived in it and you weren’t the first family member to get caught up in the shit. But I never gave that much of a fuck about them. You supported me and you pushed me to do the right thing. You completely supported me and my fuck it if they don’t like me attitude. I never had someone do that for me. You made me want to go to school, you helped me become happy, which was something I never felt before until I lived with you. But you picked up a pipe.

You ratted me out, you stole Pops’ shit, you stole everything and you made it look like I did it. You got me kicked out of my grandfathers house, your fathers house, when I was fourteen. Come on, where the fuck was I supposed to go? What the hell was I supposed to do? Worse yet, you slipped crack in me and Mikey’s blunt. Who the fuck does that? So many times I was embarassed cause you were the biggest crackhead in the neighborhood and you were asking my boys to deal to you. I’ll never forget when your fuckin’ boyfriend came in the living room with me and my niggas and he had the nerve to ask if he could buy a rock.

What fucks me up though is when I randomly see you these days, barefooted and tweaked out walking down some random street, and I can’t even stop even though I know it might be one of the last times I see your ass. Lol, you completely threw away everything for a 20 dollar high that lasts for a few seconds. What you got now? Who you got? And what about me? Fuck was I supposed to do? And how am I supposed to feel when the next time I see you, you’ll probably be in a closed casket. You have no idea how much shit you’ve fucked up. And cause I look just like you, how Paw Paw calls me your name sometimes, and has trouble trusting me because of how many times you’ve broken his heart.

I have trouble with my boyfriend even because of you. You know his moms was on the same shit you are. Difference is she’s clean now. But when I hear about him trusting her, I disapprove and it causes rifts cause I lack the ability to believe in anyone, and I don’t want him to feel like I did and do. Not to mention it makes me feel like shit to not be worth the willpower it takes to get clean.

In honor of recent events concerning Bush and shoes, I’ve decided to post up this little game that was forwarded to my e-mail(thanks, Dad.) Do it for the lulz.

Have fun.

So, it snowed this year in New Orleans. It was pretty but as I watched it fall, I couldn’t help but think of when it snowed December 25th, 2004 as I watched through the blinds of my window in my room. All of my friends wanted me to come outside but it didn’t feel right. Something felt wrong about it, like calm before the storm, if you’ve ever witnessed that. Eight months later, Katrina hit. So when I looked out of the blind of the window in my room this year, I assume it’s just a freight train coming my way. I looked at the marker at the top of my ceiling that marks the highest the flood water got and I figure, well fuck. There ain’t no attic in this muthafucka so I don’t know how in the world I’d get on the roof, not to mention the roof is high as all hell and on a slope.

Here’s where you’ll call me stupid but I guess I’ll have to figure out a survival plan because I am not leaving again(not like I got far last time, fuck you, Texas). This is what you people don’t understand because you haven’t been through it. When you build a life, when a certain area is your life and all you know, when it’s your culture going down under 20 feet of water, there’s no worse feeling. When you know there’s people you’re close to possibly dead or half-way there from drowning, the only thing you want to do is go back. When I left last time, I got fucking stuck in Virginia. I hate Virginia with a burning passion. I hate when people ask me if I eat alligator and mock my accent. And I was sick and tired of people asking me if my house got fucked up, cause obviously if it didn’t, I wouldn’t be in bumfuck, VA in the first place. I was stuck there for two years. That entire two years, do you know what the only thing that made me mildly happy was? The idea of being back home. No Saints jersey, no fleur de lis tattoo, no gold and black outfits could replace what wasn’t there for me. I could not walk outside and smell salt water and fried food. There was no cajun except the lifeless ones like me who were “refugees.” And I don’t want to be that far away from home ever again in my life because I didn’t feel like myself. I get really pissed off at this city, with the corrupt cops and the fucked up school systems and no job opportunities but… I still can’t help but love it. If it was that bad, I wouldn’t have come back. But this is home to me, this is where I’m comfortable and where I know I fit in. This city is not just a city to me like it is to you. I love it like it’s a mother to me. Crazy as that may sound, it’s the truth, and I don’t expect anyone to understand but someone else from here. And I can’t do another Katrina.

I’m the player turned exclusive after my first real heartbreak. I have the tendencies but I’m good at keeping that shit down. That’s where my random apathy in relationships comes from. I’ve got the game to get anyone that I want but I really secretly just want to be left alone. I don’t trust dudes like talking about. To be 100%, I don’t trust anyone at all, with anything- so trusting a guy with my heart is dangerous to me and when I’m in love, I get just as dangerous as the notion the way I view it. I do not play. You gonna be here or you’re gonna be there. Either way, I need to know what’s up, cause I don’t have to give a fuck, and I don’t need you to. But my problem arises when this is established and then some odd months down the line, shit changes up on me and the person I got with…isn’t the person I got with anymore. I’m kind of bananas, I admit it, so suck me off. By the time these muthafuckas change, I’m already in too deep and I let them in, which is why it’s hard for me to leave and easier for me to lean on someone else. I’m not a great girlfriend anymore at the point. I start off perfect and I could maintain that if I could get the same effort from my partner but I can’t. Which really leads to me wanting to be left alone. For real, just please go away, everyone with a penis. I can’t deal with it and you damn sure can’t deal with me not being able to deal with it so…I mean, I wish niggas would get their shit straight or get their shit out my face. ‘Cause honestly…

You may think you want it, then you want me til you get me,
then you got me and you’re fucked,
cause you’ll be stuck with me for the rest of your life.
If I get attached to you, we’ll be joined at the hip,
I’ll be so latched to you.
You’ll be walking out the house and I’ll run up and tackle you,
chain your ass up to the bed and shackle you,
“You don’t think you’re leaving this house in that, do you?
Not til I brand my name in your ass and tattoo you.”
Have you walking out this bitch in turtleneck sweaters,
scarves and full leathers in ninety degree weather.
Front on me? Never, cause we gon be together forever.
Right, bitch? ……RIGHT, BITCH?

Hey lady, hey darling, hey baby,
I don’t think you really want to be my girl.
I can’t be your boyfriend because…
(fucking with me can be dangerous)
if you toy with my motherfucking emotions,
I’ll kill you and I’m fucking foreal.
I’ll make you suffer like I suffer,
If you fuck me, you might make me fall in love.

Boyfriend’s were hurt in the creation of this post.