My friends and I did a lot of bad shit in college. Much of which is still well within the statute of limitations laws. So, at my legal team’s discretion, I will spare you the grizzly details. But fear not, my children, for I have a tale for you. It’s not about me specifically but rather an old friend.

For the sake of confidentiality, we’ll call him, “Brian”. But there’s something you need to know about Brian. Before he met us, Brian didn’t do bad shit. He didn’t smoke or drink or attempt to have sex with every girl he met. He was a shy kid who wanted to be an engineer. Like most of us, he was the first in his family to go to college. Unlike us, he actually took college seriously. I often wondered why he chose us as friends.

Perhaps we gave him a glimpse of who he might’ve been in another time.

But psychoanalysis really isn’t my strong suit, so I’ll stop there.

So one night, we piled five deep in a yellow Ford Ranger and headed to the club. We contorted our bodies like Tetris blocks. There was a long debate about who was going to “ride bitch.” That’s the middle seat to you common folk. That debate was settled with a game of rock, paper, scissors. Best two out of three of course. We never talked while en route. We turned the music up to the max and drank like sailors.

The ice cubes rattled to the cadence of whatever song was jamming at the time. It was the year of the instructional dance song, so we were probably cranking this and that. We parked nearly a quarter-mile from the club because the only thing worse than riding on the passenger side of your best friend’s ride was riding in a clown car.

By this time, Brian was a novice drinker. His drink of choice was always a 24oz bottle of Smirnoff Ice. Never more. Never less. But that night, Brian became a man. “I don’t feel shit, pass me one of those Four Lokos.”

Now if you know anything about Four Loko, you know that they’re not something you just ease into. Side effects may include rapid heart rate, blackouts, curdling screams for help, and inexplicable death. But Brian was 20, he knew the risks!!

Brian chugged that son’ bitch like Stone Cold Steve Austin. I was so proud of him. Our baby boy was ready for the big leagues. “alright, let’s get it!” Brian declared. And get it we did.

It wasn’t unusual for us to separate in the club. Especially when you consider the ratio of pretty young thangs to fuck boys. But we always maintained eye contact.

When I tapped my other buddy to ask where Brian was, he said he hadn’t seen him for a while. I figured he was in the bathroom throwing up one of his internal organs, but there was no sign of him there.

I sent him a text but got no response. It was nearly 1:45, so we were beginning to get worried. We stepped outside, where, one by one, we all called Brian’s phone. No answer. We searched every inch of the parking lot to no avail. We stayed nearly until 3 AM asking drunk strangers if they had seen our friend. No one had. The police weren’t much help since technically he had only been missing for a few hours.

We began to theorize the worst. “Maybe someone kidnapped him.” “What if someone killed him?” “What if they have his phone?”

We spent the night with a friend who lived close to the club.

I sent Brian a text to the address where we would be. I woke up every hour to check my phone. At about 8 am the following morning, we received a knock on the door. When we opened the door, there stood Brian, completely covered in mud. We immediately brought him and asked where the fuck he had been. He slowly told us he stepped outside to throw up and that’s all he remembered. When he woke up, he was behind the club in a tiny patch of grass. We shared a good laugh and rode back to our dorm.

That was almost ten years ago. It’s been nearly four years since I’ve last seen or spoken to Brian. He’s lost again. But this time it’s voluntary. We had a dispute that I’m afraid is beyond reconciliation. But I miss his friendship. Sometimes I play out these scenarios where he shows up again laugh like we’ve never missed a beat.

I hear he has a few kids and is doing alright for himself. Good for Brian.

Wherever he is, I hope he’s well.

For the past week, I’ve painfully followed the trial of Amber Guyger, a white, now ex- Dallas police officer who fatally shot Botham Jean after mistaking him for an intruder in his own apartment.

Amber Guyger was subsequently convicted of murder and sentenced to 10 years in prison.

A sentence which many, including myself, thought was a slap on the wrist. After the trial, Botham’s brother, Brandt Jean, was allowed to address Amber in a victim impact statement.

“I love you as a person, and I don’t wish anything bad on you.” Said, Brandt.

“Can I give her a hug, please?”

Brandt asked the judge. Moments, later Brandt and Guyger embraced in a tearful hug. Within minutes, news outlets began reposting the moment- applauding Brandt for his act of forgiveness and grace. I quickly found myself overcome with rage. My anger was not with Brandt but rather the gross inequity of black forgiveness.

We’ve heard the mantras:

“Forgiveness is for you, not anyone else”

“Forgiveness is the first step toward healing.”

Forgiveness has long been prescribed and peddled as a condition for healing black trauma. It is often reinforced through religious dogma and adjacent ideologies that black bodies have historically bound themselves to. Black forgiveness acts as an extinguisher for the flames of white arson.

But the problem with the politics of forgiveness is that it transfers the burden of restitution from the trespasser to the person(s) who were harmed. Those who violate are given immediate grace; often without offering a single iota of remorse or reparation.

There is no greater example of this than the rigid history of black bodies in this country.

Black folks have endured and survived the worst atrocities and human rights violations ever recorded in history. A cruel origin story of human trafficking, cultural erasure, and the commodification of forced labor.

The scars of our generational trauma have never been formally acknowledged. Instead, they have been carefully tucked beneath the fibers of this country. I reject the notion of forgiveness without an exchange of humanity.

I have no interest in finding a moral high ground amidst chaos. Nor do I have any reservations in the next life. I simply yearn for the day when we explore and celebrate non-forgiveness as a tool of liberation. Our humanity is worth that much.

Their phone is not a tool of leverage for your insecurities

Our phones are digital repositories of private information, intimate thoughts, and obscure memes. Regardless of the nature of your digital footprint, the contents of your phone belong to you. There are those who believe this right is relinquished when we consent to a committed relationship.

News Flash: It ain’t!

Snooping through a mate’s phone is not exclusive to race, gender, or financial class. Doubts and feelings of uncertainty exist in every relationship at some point.

But surveillance is not a condition of love. And trust isn’t built by a series of periodic check-ins. By treating it as such, we rob ourselves of true security and love. Snooping is a wicked game you will always lose.

Here are three reasons why shouldn’t.

1. Because you’re an adult, not a spy

While the two aren’t exactly mutually exclusive, you’re probably not the latter. And just for kicks, let’s say you’re into espionage; you’re probably hiding way more shit. So if you believe your mate is being dishonest and/or fucking the gardener- simply ask them. You’re an adult, remember? That doesn’t guarantee an honest or satisfactory response. So if you’re still not convinced, you should do one of two things:

• Make sure your suspicions are not being fueled by past traumas, unwarranted insecurities or projections.
• Consider leaving the relationship.

2. Snooping doesn’t stop infidelity

The only line of defense against cheating is a mate who chooses you every day. Cheating is a violation of trust that will ravage every fiber of security in your relationship. But we are powerless against it. It is unfortunate as it is true. The onus is on those we entrust our hearts to.

3. Even people who have nothing to hide deserve privacy

Your partner’s phone is not a tool of leverage for your insecurities. Not finding anything incriminating in your mate’s phone is not a victory. It is a breach of trust.

After years of rumored release dates, a nasty legal battle with his stage father and former label, and a brief acquisition by Martin Shkreli, Lil’ Wayne’s twelfth studio album, Tha Carter V has been released. It couldn’t have come at a better time for the 36-year-old emcee. The once unanimous king of hip-hop has been everything but that in recent years.

The last time Weezy had a number one album, our Black president was gearing up for his re-election campaign, Snapchat was not available on Android devices, and The RIAA did not supplement digital streams for gold and platinum album certifications.

Since then, Wayne’s subsequent releases, coupled with his shrinking public profile have failed to elevate his existence as a titan in hip-hop ‘lore. Be that as it may, if the self-proclaimed martian decided to phone home, his legacy would remain intact. But Wayne doesn’t want to leave; he wants us to remember him as he was. And he almost did it.

Tha Carter V is an ambitious 23-track body of work that at first glimpse feels like a reimbursement for its nearly six-year delay. But as the album progresses through the first spin, it becomes a victim of its own anticipation. With glaring lapses between bangers, C5 feels like a heavy-handed compilation.

On the contrary, there are moments of brilliance that rescue Wayne from an anticlimactic pitfall. But that is not to Wayne’s credit alone. C5 features an ensemble of hip-hop’s brightest stars and producers: Nicki Minaj, Kendrick Lamar, Snoop Dogg, Mannie Fresh, Swizz Beats, and Travis Scott.

The album opens with a heartfelt message from his mother, Jacida Carter.

I just pray things go well with you in life
But I thank the lord, because I know you have been through a lot that I don’t even know about
Mama love you
I love you Dwayne, with all my heart
You is my life
I live for you

If you needed a refresher of Weezy's cultural impact, “Dedicate” is your one-stop-shop. The track is a glossy pat on the back that is no more arrogant than it is true. The screwed voice on the hook is no other than Atlanta’s own, 2 Chainz.

You tatted your face and changed the culture
You screamed suu-whoop and them gangsters loved you
You bought a Bugatti so you could flex
And most of the bad bitches your ex

To corroborate his story, Wayne also called on Barack Obama whose voice is sampled at the song's closing.

They might think they’ve got a pretty good jump shot, or a pretty good flow. But our kids can’t all aspire to be LeBron or Lil Wayne!

-Barack Obama

Wayne also reunited with Nicki Minaj for a sultry ballad titled, “Dark Side of The Moon.” Though he’s never been an exceptional vocalist, Wayne’s ability to gently drag his worn and raspy voice across tracks is a testament to his artistry. That is also evident on “Dope New Gospel” (feat. Nivea)

Nicki and Wayne’s synergy is near perfect; complementing and elevating one another-hand over fist. The only disappointment is when the song fades out into obscurity.

Songs “Demon” and “Can’t Be Broken” though complementary, do a great job of rounding the album out in-between the bursts of nostalgia. The same however can not be said for “Don’t Cry” (feat. XXXTentacion) and an amended version of “Start This Shit Off Right” (feat. Mack Maine + Ashanti). Both tracks feel like fillers that would have served a better purpose on the cutting room floor.

But if there was ever a question of Wayne’s lyrical fitness, his performance on “Mona Lisa” puts that to rest. It is undoubtedly the standout song of the album, and perhaps Weezy’s best bars to date. His deliberate choppy flow builds like a quiet storm for two consecutive verses.

By the time he passes the baton to Kendrick Lamar, it is clear that he will not be overshadowed on his own track without a fight. It is a fun and hard-hitting exchange between two greats.

At its best, Tha Carter V is a delivered promise that fans- old and new alike can appreciate. It is neither exceptional nor underwhelming. But it has enough weight to tilt the scale of public opinion in his favor. If Wayne is chasing his shadow, he’s right on his dreads. But his ambitions of capturing the hearts and minds of a generation again do not seem likely.

Are you being continually ghosted after the first date? Chances are it's your fault. But don’t worry, I got you covered.

But First: Are you, like, a person? Yes? To prove it here’s an unnecessary captcha to verify your humanity.

Note: Bots will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law

Congratulations, you’re a human. Without further ado: Your blueprint to a second date.

1. Don’t tell 90s “Yo Mama” jokes.

There was a time when insulting someone’s mother would incite immediate laughter. It was a fun time. That time has passed. People have assault rifles now. So even if your date’s mama is so ugly she makes blind kids cry, just keep it to yourself. Because they may “ghost” you with their assault rifle.

2. Make your date sign a non-compete dating agreement.

In a world where people can literally swipe their next date, you need protection. A non-compete ensures your potential love interest will not seek a more viable candidate. And if they do, drown them in litigation. They could have drowned in your love. But Noooooo.

3. Be fucking amazing.

Amazing people don’t get ghosted. If you’re wondering if you’re amazing or not; it’s the latter. You’re taking dating advice from a guy on the internet. But that doesn’t mean you can’t fake the funk. Exaggerate your accomplishments. Lie about your life experiences. Order lobster. If the restaurant you’re at doesn't have lobster, order jumbo shrimp. They’re cousins. Oh, and use words like “Curator” and “Absolutely.” Now let's use it in a sentence.

“I am absolutely a curator.”

-Amazing You

4. Be Emotionally Unavailable.

If your emotions are not invested, it voids the ghost. The only people who get ghosted are people who care. Feel nothing. Expect nothing. Want nothing. Your date may ignore the glaring warning signs and mistake your emotional immaturity for mystique.

5. Pay your date for all future interactions.

It may seem desperate, but incentives make the world go ‘round. What you lose in currency, you will gain in human interaction. And we both know you could use that.

That’s all I got! Good luck!

Montana- Firefighters responded to a two-alarm fire on the condiment aisle inside a Wal-Mart on the 7100 block of Elgin road.

Despite crew’s quick response, seventy-nine jars of mayonnaise curdled in the blaze.

A bottle of Hidden Valley creamy chipotle ranch, who did not want to be identified, said the ordeal started when Micky McMayonnaise became angry when Nike revealed former NFL quarterback and kneeling aficionado, Colin Kaepernick would be one of the featured faces for their 30th anniversary ‘Just Do It’ campaign.

“He kept going on and on how he was going to boycott Nike. Which I thought was weird considering none of the condiments have feet or clothes, but whatevs. Next thing I know, all of the mayos are getting riled up. Then, someone suggested setting themselves on fire to protest. And it was over before it began. I was forced to jump to the bread aisle for safety”, recalled the bottle of Hidden Valley creamy chipotle ranch.

Store officials are worried last night’s protests may become a dangerous trend amidst the controversy. Raisins and deli made potato salad will remain under close observation.

Wal-Mart will resume normal operations, though breathing apparatuses are recommended.

Doctors are tapping their off-beat feet to a rare heart murmur found during a routine checkup. When Diane Johnson went in for her annual physical, she was expecting her doctor to recommend scaling back on sugar and recreational drug use. Instead, she got a death sentence when her doctor discovered her heart goes “ba-dum, boo’d up biddy-da-dum, boo’d up.”

The average human heart should sound like the Law and Order “dun dun” on a continuous loop. While heart murmurs have been known to vary, Ms. Johnson’s unique heartbeat has the production value of a top-40 radio hit.

“In my 12 years of medicine, I have never heard a heart murmur this damn catchy. Most heart murmurs are emotionless cadences and vibrations. But Ms. Johnson has the type of heart murmur that gets me in my feelings. So deep in my feelings. We could probably save her, but then we’d have to wait until next summer for another banger, ” said Dr. David Kilpatrick, a cardiologist at Hopkins Hospital for the Uninsured.

Two similar cases were discovered last month. While doctors are reluctant to call this a murmur cluster, researchers are studying these patients to see if a common link exists.

“I mean, she’s probably going to die. That’s just how medicine works. People die and we learn more stuff. What can you do?” said Jason Hall, an unpaid university researcher.

Doctors recommend checking your resting heart rate 2–3 times a week. For more information, visit the first link that popped up in my Google search.

Update: Ms. Johnson died just before this article was published.