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📓 Thursday, August 7, 2025 — 10:39 p.m.
I’m sitting here watching TV — surprise, surprise, haha.
Today’s been one of those “thinking days.” Good, bad, indifferent — my mind’s been running.
For a second… okay, more than a second… I caught myself wondering:
What am I really doing?
Thinking, thinking, thinking.
Let’s break it down.
RACISM — my definition is hatred.
I first heard that from Jesse Lee Peterson, and when I sat with it, it made sense. “Racism” is an ugly word, but the root of it is really hatred. Strip away the label, and you’re left with the core: good versus hatred.
That thought took me somewhere else… into the gift that we are.
Magic.
Later, I saw a YouTube video — Nick Fuentes talking about Black people. I left a comment, got a reply, and replied back. What I told them is something I believe with my whole chest: most people don’t even realize they are the magic.
They’ve been walking around with something divine, something rare, thinking they’re just “regular.”
But you’re not regular when you can think, create, love, and shape the atmosphere of a room just by showing up in it.
That’s not regular. That’s the gift.
Most people don’t recognize it until it’s too late.
They think it’s money, status, or some perfect break that makes them valuable. But it’s not.
It’s you.
The problem is — hatred kills that magic.
It rots it from the inside.
If you can’t see the gift in yourself and others, you start looking for reasons to hate… and that hate will rob you blind before you even realize what’s gone.
Friday, August 8, 2025 — 4:50 p.m.
“Continuation of last night’s entry“
Last night, I couldn’t fully articulate or finish my entry.
I was tired from running my plastic bag route. Late night, and I thought, Alright, time to travel to that other dimension under my blankets.
This morning I woke up at 6 a.m. and walked my cat, Simba.
Yes — I walk my cat on a leash.
He wears a green harness with a constellation print, mapping the “stars” of dirt and oil stains on the pavement.
After Simba’s walk, it was time.
Time to unload the van.
Every Monday and Friday, my father and I empty that van full of merchandise, then take it out to buy more.
Calls came in for deliveries, so my workout was a no-go this morning.
I had to slay that sale and put the “dragon” to rest — okay, exaggerating — but I did knock out a few deliveries while my dad restocked for the weekend.
Now I’m typing this on my laptop, propped on top of plastic bag cases.
One door wide open, one leg up on the running board, the other on the ground.
Cool breeze, full shade from a giant tree here in East L.A.
Black Nike slides on my feet. Just me, the keys, and the hum of the street.
Hot-ass day.
I just finished a 16 oz cup of fruit: watermelon, melon, pineapple — topped with lemon juice for that final punch.
Resting a bit from the heat, I started thinking about microexpressions — how the body says “what’s up” or “stay away” without words.
Earlier, I went to a Panda Express in South Central.
Got my order: white rice, chow mein, grilled chicken, teriyaki meat.
Standing in line in that sweet, sweet air conditioning, I noticed the cashier girl glance at me one… two… three times. Long line of people, but still — three looks. Compliment? Coincidence?
As I stepped up to order — boom — insecurity tried to creep in.
I’ve been racially profiled my whole life for looking “too Hispanic,” and the irony is… it’s usually been by Mexican-Americans.
Today, I laughed it off in my head. I pivoted.
They’ve been working hard — some at the register, others serving, the cooks sweating behind giant pans with fire roaring underneath.
So I gave myself the best advice: Shut up. You’re not that important. Say thank you.
I also noticed the cashier grin to another cashier as they crossed paths.
I clocked a few more details, but the heat’s making me fade.
Lesson of the day: I needed to write this entry because I’m training myself to write — every day, no excuses.
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