So, I was at work, chillin’ in the cut thinking about Lil Yachty, when my female co-worker walks in, real bummed. And you know me, bro—as a third wave feminist superhero, I pounce into action when I see a woman in need.
I puff out my chest to tell her it’ll be okay and not to cry, but something inside me went, nah, man. Nah. This is real. Listen. It was the same voice that told me not to take Stefon Diggs in the first round ‘cuz he’d be there in the second, so I was like, maybe this is God?
Yo, people have feelings. Like, I listened, and I saw and felt her fear and pain, but also her power and determination. Dude, I know. Did you know women fear losing ownership of their bodies because some jackwads think they know what’s up? What kind of shit is that?
What’s that word? Apathy? I was apathy, bro. No, wait, empathy. I was empathy. My bad ha!
But then I was like, Whoa. If this strong woman could be scared, are, like, other people scared? Do they fear? Do I fear? Because bro, on a reality tip, that scared me. I thought I was invincible because I’m the man, you know? But maybe I’m scared. Damn.
What does it mean, man? Why am I even saying “man?” Man, dude, guy—these are all terms for dudes! Bro. Oh fuck! What’s real anymore? If everything I thought was the way isn’t, then what?
I thought I was just listening to her, but my brain is melting IRL—I don’t know what to think. What else am I not seeing by not listening?
Am I even a good man? What even is a man? Is it just a wee-wee? Is it just a label? Because that voice in my head, the one that told me not to take Golden Tate in the second round ‘cuz he’d be there in the third, it’s asking, like, what even is? If that voice—which is totally God—doesn’t even know, then who does? If the rules of the game were made by a council of whack-ass Roger Goodells, then are the rules even for real? And who are they for? Me?? If everyone can’t play, then I don’t want to neither! I ain’t ‘bout that life!
I mean, I tweeted mad shit to Kevin Durant for leaving OKC to play with The Splash Bros., but maybe he just wanted to live in The Bay and not play for a team that won him in a lottery. OH SHIT—layers.
Bro, it’s weird. Like, we were taught men had to be stoic, silent, hard as a rock. Emotionless. Thoughtless. Humanless. My guy, we were told to idolize James Bond and Clint Eastwood and Batman. But told by who? Where did that rule come from? And why? Exactly, man… hu-man.
Bro, those are all characters, false symbols, written by men. Men! Other dudes hiding their insecurities in order to create a picture of their ideal selves, an unattainably toxic goal: the numb boy, the tough boy, the fuck boi. They feared their vulnerabilities because a man in their life told them vulnerability was major weak sauce. They never stepped out of their brain and thought, wait, what is this saying? What’s the message? And this just, like, perpetuated… for generations! Generations, hu-bud!
All it took was one man to spread a lie, and we believed them. We did that, all of us. That’s weak sauce; no wonder we’re trash.
My guy, I don’t get it. We could breathe and open our eyes. Be alone, dance to Ariana by ourselves, and cry. Cry, bro. Cry. We could cry. We should cry. We should be empathy. Men. Listen to ourselves, and others… a hella group of others. Feel. Be open. Because it’s okay. It’s human. We won’t die.
*He bends over in agony*
Oh shit, bro, my head… what’s happening?? It hurts! What the—
*A beam of light emanates from the sky. It shines on him. He floats, his head and chest glows. His skin’s undertones saturate. Energy flows within.*
What’s that…a booming voice in my head…”Congratulations. You are now a real boy.”
… Bro. This shit is dope, bro!