Banana Republic.

Gangsta rap cracks me up. How can it not crack anyone up, with lyrics like

“Yall niggaz is pussy, poonani, (Vagina)”
 
That’s taken from New York by Ja Rule, which is somehow in my laptop. I know that gansta rap has been described as being sexist because of the way women are potrayed and all but I’m not a bra-burning feminist so I have no beef, as they say it, with the lyrical content of gangsta rap. It’s still music and a form of entertainment. Don’t listen to it if you don’t like it. I think sometimes we are being overly sensitive about things – racist, sexist, ageist and all other -ists. Or maybe I’m just increasingly apathetic. Do I smell an existential crisis coming up? I hope not, I am quite happy to be in my desensitized cocoon. I do not want to end up becoming one of those people who spend a lot of time alone in nature reserves to be emo and contemplate mortality. I have other things to do, like thinking about cures to the ailments that I am currently afflicted with.

• toothache – it’s no fun chewing using one side only. Now the right side of my face is going to be more muscular. Great.
• neckache – I am now Derek Zoolander, I can’t turn left.This is the worst of the lot because I feel like I am wearing a neck brace.
• pocketache – no sign of the Sacred Brown Envelope yet. It has become an obsession, checking the mailbox for it.
• sore throat – slight, but still a discomfort.
• sore eye – now I’m like a bloody pirate, typing with one eye open only.

Damn it.