Like bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam bam….
My girl Tracee! She is just beyond fly and I am completely OBSESSED with her! She has such a positive and quirky personality and I am preeeeetty sure we’d be BFF’s if we met. I’m almost positive about that. *stalker moment* But, yeah, I love this woman.
I adore her.
I want to be her when I grow up
So many shots fired.
Bill Fucking Maher !!!! I love this dude !!
For real, I have watched maybe three segments of this woman’s programming ever. What a damn hateful mess she is.
Welp. He told the truth on that one
wiped a bead of sweat
In Photos: Portraits by photographer Jalani Morgan.
It’s always strange and a bit surreal to me when I look at a photograph of strangers and somehow manage to feel as though the person behind the lens has so aptly managed to capture the essence of those pictured. Perhaps it’s a bit of romanticism on my part, but I can’t help but feel that way when looking at the work of photographer Jalani Morgan. What may on the surface seem to be a simple portrait becomes an intensifying three-way relationship between the subject, the photographer and viewer. A two-dimensional image is brought to life and in a matter of seconds, upon gazing at Morgan’s portraits, I have no option but to feel a close connection to the unknown faces captured by his lens.
Jalani Morgan is a portrait, fine art and documentary photographer.
Born in Toronto, Ontario, and raised in Scarborough. He was influenced by his parents’ teachings of the African Diasporas and politics and through that is interjected into his art.
He produces work that investigates the representation from the African diaspora.
Currently he is studying at York University in Toronto obtaining his degree in Anthropology and African Studies.
it’s so cute i want an army of them
So there I was, ready to take a shower. I mean, I was dirty, a little greasy, a shower was not such a horrible idea. People take showers, amiright? Of course!
I get naked.
I’m talking the exact opposite reason why you ever went to your grandmother’s house.
No cookies. Blatant nudity.
That’s how folks take showers these days, right? Well, I pull back the curtain…
And there it was.
This…thing…sitting on the little soap/shower/pube shelf. Not a care in the world, like it’s been there for years. “What the fuck is that?” I think to myself.
Now, what follows is the exact pattern of thought that took me from rational human being to Sloth in 3.4 seconds.
“Is that a Red Lobster cheesy biscuit? Holy fuck that’s a Red Lobster cheesy biscuit. OMG why would someone leave that unattended. Those things are so delicious. I’m gonna eat the fuck out of it. Man, I can’t wait to see whoever left it’s face when they come back to find that someone ate their cheesy biscuit’s fuck. Ohhh boy.”
Then my brain sent a message to my arm that said, “Reach for that cheesy biscuit, bitch. WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!?”
As you must already know, we are all contractually bound to make a dickload of mistakes throughout our lifetime. Some of those mistakes are so big that they forever hinder our world and warrant entire chapters in our children’s history books. However, most mistakes have the dubious providence of merely haunting one’s soul and festering amidst the subconscious for always and eternity.
This was, nearly, one of those.
If my adjacency to failure could be measured, the only possible unit of measurement to appropriate it would be “baby condoms”. And no, I do not mean those horrendous papoose-like titty-cribs that the slovenly carriage their spawn around in in Wal-Mart, I mean condoms that a baby would wear.
My adjacency to failure was roughly 1 and a half Kiddie Trojans.
I’m not sure what stopped me, be it cosmic or supernatural, but it gave my brain just enough time to ask itself some rather important questions regarding this little tub treasure. Questions like:
“WHO, THE FUCK, WOULD LEAVE A CHEESY BISCUIT IN MY SHOWER?!”
And inquiries such as:
“AND WHY WERE YOU GOING TO EAT IT, MORON?!”
Seriously, was I so hungry that I would wantonly disobey all the integral conditioning and survival imprinting my parents bestowed upon me like the ever important, “Um, don’t eat that biscuit retard, you don’t know where it’s been or whose it is and also you found it in the shower.” in order to satisfy something so benign as a munchie?
That, I’m sorry to say, was pretty much my reality.
An early morning introspective psychological evaluation of a sad, hungry, naked man who almost ate a bar of soap.
OMG ITS BACK
This shit needs to be published.
This is going in the monologue section and I’m not even sorry.