Siya stole my diary but I’m not going to do anything about it. Not yet.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Diary, but it’s been a while. Did you miss me? I missed you. Fist bump, bro. I’m sorry about how long it’s been. I couldn’t find you! I was looking all over for you in a frantic haze. I couldn’t fathom how I’d misplaced you. You’re an electronic entity after all, a page in cyberspace. My mind was apace with lighting strikes of horrid uncertainty. Did you set off on your own, sailing away into the electronic ocean, forging ahead to colonize new blogs? Did you stumble off in drunken defragmentation, bumbling into a digital brothel, catching a terminal virus? Or did you simply forget about me, my memory archived along with your location, hidden, set aside indefinitely?
Turns out it was none of that shit. You were STOLEN, Diary. STOLEN. Can you believe it? We’re victims of crime! This is all quite traumatic. Although, thinking on it, you’re not the first thing that’s ever been stolen from me. Back in my college days, there was a time I woke up at noon-thirty, intent on rolling to class, only to find my car ramshackled. Some hooligan had made off with my radar detector and Jay-Z’s Kingdom Come, which, if you’re the type of person who is into thieving things, you should probably know is actually the worst possible CD to steal from someone. I was kind of happy about that. That album blows. The loss of the radar detector sucked a tiny amount of suckage, but if I’m being real here, it was a good thing. I had totally gotten way more tickets with it in my possession, relying on it as an impervious shield against law enforcement when it was more like a sickly dying watchdog. Life lessons, Diary.
Anyway, yes, you were stolen, Diary! Turns out, while I was away, Siya decided he wanted you for himself. Can you believe that? He just went off and decided he wanted to co-opt my creative vision, living like he was in some Bizarro World of artistic race relations. He didn’t ask. He just took. That’s why I couldn’t find you, Diary. You were kidnapped by the RanDom CAPitalization BandIT. Snatched away by the South African DJ. Abducted by the alliterating alien. And frankly Diary, this all has me way the fuck pissed off.
Let’s not mind the fact that he didn’t even create an image decorated in lazy Photoshop and iFun emojis. Let’s turn our backs on the lack of a proper sign off, a middle finger to you, Diary, leaving you wondering, craving more written word. Let’s even ignore the fact that he desecrated your pages with the idiotic, rambling piss poetry of Will Smith’s son, The Fresh Prince of Bunkum. None of that really matters. What matters is that he broke our trust, Diary. And during the very week we entrusted him with our entire blog. That’s not something I can tolerate. I’m a petty and vengeful man. I’m also a goddamned elephant. And elephants never forget.
Siya and I once had a debate over the best rap diss track of all time. In predictable, blind faith to G-Unit, Siya chose 50 Cent’s “Wanksta” as his pièce de résistance, citing the ensuing evaporation of Ja Rule’s career as proof of the song’s diss track superiority. It’s a fine surface level argument. But if you dig deeper into that song, you realize it’s not really about Ja Rule. It’s about 50. It’s about what he does on the streets, the women he talks to, the lifestyle he leads. Outside the chorus, that’s hardly a diss track at all. A diss track needs to be personal. It needs to attack the core of a person, using real, insightful knowledge about the target. It needs to be The Game’s “300 Bars and Runnin’”. That was my choice in our debate. It’s a brutal attack of a track. The Game doesn’t just go after 50, he bombards his entire family, his crew, his history, with an epic odyssey of insult, a crushing ocean of personalized diss, wave after fiery wave crashing into 50. He burns down every last bridge between himself and 50. Then he pisses on the dying flames. That’s what I’m going to do to Siya.
Revenge is coming. It might not be this week or the next. It might not be for a month. But it’s coming. You’ll know when. It’ll be a whole week of pain, announced by a Morning Commute battle horn of Nas’ “Ether”. I’m going to cut down every last thing that Siya loves. I’m going to write a blazing inferno across everything that he holds dear. I’m going to scorch it all, from animal attack videos to Matthew McConaughey’s bongo drums. I’m going to steal his columns, his gimmicks, his lackadaisical posts. Did you not see what I did to that Russet potato? Why would you tempt that crazy within? Siya’s the Japanese in World War 2. I’m a waking giant. DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’RE GETTING INTO? I DO ALITERATION BETTER THAN YOU DO.
On second thought, the war analogy doesn’t work. This won’t be a war. War implies that both sides have a fighting chance. Siya has no chance. This will be a massacre.
So yeah, Siya stole my diary, but I’m not going to do anything about it. Not yet. But I will.