Supa is technically 1/8th of The Writing Crew: a talented, lively, mentally-unbalanced group of hardcore writers who formed a personal and professional bond over half a decade ago. Think of us as a Negro, literary version of The Brat Pack. These fools are my family.
And just like any family, we are both loving and dysfunctional. We party together, travel, drink, smoke, celebrate, argue, pontificate, engage in questionable romantic entanglements, fall out, fuck up, give bad advice, curse each other behind the other’s back, swear to never talk to each other again, vow our undying love for one another, save each other’s asses, and go to blows with anyone within earshot who attempts to sully any of our names or reputations.. Oh, and we also encourage, support, and critique each other’s writing projects/careers. Yeah.
So last night, a member of The Writing Crew left a voicemail on Supa’s cellie, and honestly she wasn’t screening this time, but in the kitchen whipping up a new batch of Theraflu. (I’m really sick this time, for real)
A little background on the member in question: Dude hails from Brooklyn, and is a brilliant, frighteningly talented, if somewhat psychotic, yet all-around gifted writer. (He's a cross between this guy and this guy.) I mean, the brotha is a visionary. So naturally, he's a little off: He's named after a great African King, and because of this royal connection, he charges an annual fee for his friendship (see? delusions of gandeur, classic schizophrenic. And re: the fee, we never pay). But his ass can write. He’s been holding on to a manuscript the creative world desperately needs, and we’ve threatened him numerous times to stop tweaking and rewriting and editing the damn thing 20,000 times every other month, but that's a whole other sordid tale…
Anyway, the voicemail he left was a strange combination of guttural grunts, slurred words, rambling, and intermittent cursing, and Supa replayed the message six times and still barely deciphered half. The only part I got was where he called me, or somebody, (cover your ears, kiddies) a punk-ass mutha fucker. Supa is curious to know, if any of your friends talk to you like that? Sheesh.
At any rate, he sounded violently drunk, freshly released from jail, homeless, or some unsurprising combination of the three. I hadn’t talked to him since the year began, and regretted missing his call. More importantly, Supa wanted to know if he’d been brought in for questioning regarding the now infamous felonious acts the Writing Crew are alleged to have committed one wild night in or around Pop Burger, a bar in midtown Manhattan; or if he was just simply calling to say hey. Supa tried to hit him back, but to no avail...
So, Fool, if you’re reading this, (cause quite a few of Supa’s friends keep up with her via this blog) holla atcha girl! Promise I’ll pick up this time, as long as I’m not sleep. And yo, there’s no room on my sofa, I’m having the living room remodeled.
Love you too, Skidmarks!