TheLegendsLeague | Bryan Espiritu » Rants

I Apologize…

be. — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 17:41:56 +0000

I know an apology’s lame,
but I’m sorry..
I’m about to demolish the game.

Love Always,
Bryan.

TheLegendsLeague: I’m So Alone.

be. — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 02:03:10 +0000

I’m still alone.
I’m still two yards,
both front and back,
two dogs, a cat,
a beautiful wife and a sunshine reminder
of my beautiful life,
away from a true home.
I’m, I’m still alone.
I’m still typing more by thumbs than I am flipping through parchment,
leafing through awe inspiring blends
of things I’ve penned, storied or drawn
between the hours of just around dawn
as I yawn
in a two story apartment.
I am a stone never discovered.
I am alone still searching for the old love I so readily smothered
with poems I had not wrote on the screen
of a telephone
that I cannot recover.
I’m, I’m still alone.
I am still denied entrance to the houses of fashion,
I am still declined mention from the mouths of the passionate
and current,
I am burdened by what once so burned my flame.
My spirit has not its name.
Not spanish or otherwise.
I am alone.
I, I am alone.
My basketcase butterflies,
flutter at every social circle I talk in.
Walking,
I’m awkward as Urkel
but Hawkin from the crown down.
And too often my chin-up cannot lower the bar.
I lack the harshness of narcissists,
strolling and laughing,
nose raised in a daze with throat open for slashing.
I do not ask for pity.
But here in my city,
I am not home.
I’m, I’m still alone.
And so I dream of the most romantic scenes
from an excerpt somewhere that gestures between
Titanic and tantric, and notes of hope.
And love letters.
And someone to boast my claim.
Maybe someone alone.
Yes.
Yes, someone the same.
My gosh.
Why, I’m still alone.
My thoughts and mind make labrynth laps.
Weathered, they hunt treasures
while scattering maps and flattering no one but X’s
who may have never marked my spot;
scalding my pot with food for my clamouring thoughts
and moods that would only teach me to be down for them.
Down and
down again.
Oh, I’m still alone.
I’m still a thoughtful skill
killed by a bottle,
pills and a throttle
that no longer chooses to break.
I’m a storied Eeyore
who’s lost his tales.
Off shore in a lake, oreless, at a loss for sales
and wind to blow me back to a safely lit dock.
I’m a flavorless, ticked talk away from a swung clock
from my neck
and a viking hat.
Love struck,
although striking back only leaves me with nothing but a tired arm,
a heart like a fire bomb
that smokes to the tone of a home alarm so high
its impossible to silence.
I am trapped in my lessons of vengeance and violence
from being strapped by the weapons and methods of guidance
by my father figure.
I have turned a goner.
I am somber.
I,
once sun,
can shine no longer.
I’m, I’m so alone.
I’m so dethrowned.
I’m still a clown.
I’m so enthralled by the loss I have found
that I embrace her like she has raised me more than
she has shown me to fall.
Still a grain of me braves the scenery of a slave
so dissolved that he is not so much washed
as he is a stain to the bath.
I am,
I am an undesired punk in a decided slump
who in a loss of poise
still quite enjoys
getting a rise out of driving drunk.
When I am alone.
I’m, I’m still alone.
I’m still in search.
For what, I’m unsure,
but it involves some of this,
a little that,
riddles resolved,
and a beautiful perch
that I can sit and see old friends from.
I am so backwards off red rum, it kills me.
I am too sensitive.
I am too silly.
I am no attention
span of a man.
I am not rich, though I am so philthy
that froggishly I pray
for a princess to kiss me.
I am…
someone…
you can’t understand.
I’m, I’m still alone.
I’m still alone.
God help me..
I’m still alone.
In love with a ghost.
Accompanied by a spirit.
Embraced by a voice
yet nobody hears it.
I am still.
And in this stillness,
I’m, I’m so alone.
I’m so alone.

I’m creating again like my life is fading.. again.
Love&Above..
bryan.

Not So Freelance

be. — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 03:01:52 +0000

It’s 9:47pm and I just got home from having a burger and a beer with my homey/big brother Los from LiveStock. It’s been a while since I’ve made the decision to go to bed this early, but after last night’s 6am sleep and this morning’s 9am wake-up, I’m much too exhausted to clean my room, fold my laundry, or finish designing this flyer, let alone do my Plyometrics workout.

The plan is for me to wake up bright and early tomorrow morning and get those things done while my mind is still half asleep. Then I can get to fixing things at the office and getting onto some more design based projects. It shouldn’t be too hard right? It’s just a matter of discipline, I guess.

I left the office around 8 to meet up with Los for food after spending some time doing a design for a few friends of mine. I admit that it was a struggle working on this project. I feel like I’m at such a comfortable point with my own work that I really would like to just be doing what I want to do artistically and creatively. I know, that sounds terribly diva-ish. But the truth is that I feel like I am running out of time to do everything that I have thought up in my head and at some point I’ve gotta step away from doing what someone else wants me to do.

I know that there’s a responsibility that I have to pay my bills and get by. But I also have a responsibility to myself and to my craft. I need a sense of release in my work and plain and simple, I feel like my energy for client work is wearing thin (again). There are equations and equations that I run over in my mind constantly that weigh out the affects of making decisions toward or away from freelancing or personal art projects, and in the end, the answer always seems to be, “You can’t afford to do just what you want right now”.

Ain’t that the sad truth for us all.

I’m definitely posting this on the blog as a release, not as a cry for a response and solution to the “problem”, but I am feeling like I’m going to do something a little out of character in order to not only find an answer, but to find the right solution. Something like writing my own god damn equation.

Until tomorrow,
be.

Re:Vision to Love

be. — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 16:13:09 +0000

I’m no pro on love, but I know that sometimes our hearts aren’t whole enough to beat past a breath or bleed half a pint to make us see past our minds… and how they blur us. My visions of love may be somewhat Mariah. Maybe they’re too high, or maybe psychotic. Maybe erroneous, erogenous logic that I’m just too sensitive about. But they are my visions just as much as every schizophrenic incident had been. They’re my visions like every schizophrenic incident I’ve seen, and the fear I have of not getting to them is deserting. It’s water in the sand… too far fetched. I’d carry a pail to a hill for a Jill. And all the way back to be Jack for her thrills and fall for her. But these visions of love seem to be fairy’s tales. A pixie’s dust for a lust too tricky or misled trust run amok too thick. She must always think I regress. I must not blink too frequently as to be sure that I don’t miss anything about these visions of love and other strange things. Or maybe I should blink so much more often so I can see the darkness behind blinding yourself by ideas of true magic. I wear my heart on a sleeve that carries up it no tricks. I wear a heart that has been broken by names, bones and sticks for it believed the power of a simple poem. That “Names will never hurt me”. I believed, and was crippled when I wrote, “This love is not the air beneath my feet, but the reason I am afloat”. And it echoed in a room where nobody had ever been broken. Where had the vision of love gone that I had so fondly dreamt of and spoken? “Hello Love, we haven’t met before.”. And Love replied, “If ever we part, you will regret me more than having never just said to me, ‘Hello’, you fool”. An unstirred pot makes for poorly flavored stews. I’ve walked miles in the shoes of my expectations and have arrived at nothing but hot water and a scalded hope. I would sooner be the weight to a fallen rope than continue to search for a vision I’ve had since I were a young boy that just seems to elude. Rejoice to the news of a noose and its muse. I will loosen the tie from the bow of an unaimed cherub. He will miss with an arrow, his target too careless, and left bleeding. I will reveal whole hearted – “Love, come over here and finish what you’ve started”. I am seeing that Love is rare, so when it’s real, be there. But within it’s good lays an evil, devilish touch so tainted it would leave a masterpiece painting, easel and brush, undone. It’s been a disguise. Amongst barbie dolls and ballsy guys, I am doing all I Ken to validate having a Malibu Miss. Give her a rum and a kiss, thumb to the part where her hips and her upper thigh are joined and hope for the best. I regress, I regress. Yes, my visions, my visions. I’ve had a vision of love that had carved from a stone block, a Missis with no name who had honed, locked and aimed her passion towards the apple of my tear coated eye. A man who cries is bleeding through tears. I’ve bled this heart dry over numerous years, humorous break-ups, raised glasses and Cheers’d to being single again. Then Love again. Then searching for why my visions were unreal. It’s like I mustn’t see what I cannot feel, but I look for love like I hunt for a heart to give it back to. No returns here, only exchanges so there’s something for us both to keep. I am maimed like my “Happily Ever After” was weak and I returned from the dark but didn’t keep my receipt. It’s a shame… that if love is blind, I need not these visions. I trust that if love is blind, I need these visions even more. For if Love cannot see it, then I must. If nothing is certain, at least of this, I am sure. From a vision to something to touch. From tainted to something re:stored.

“Re:Vision to Love”
- written by Bryan Espiritu.
From a book I am currently working on entitled, “The Cynic Route”.

Ghost Rights: Will I Ghostwrite?

be. — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 01:38:01 +0000

If viewing this post on facebook click here to hear the audio.
[See post to listen to audio]

Ghost Rights
a piece by Bryan be. Espiritu

This is a piece I wrote this morning while sitting in the car outside of Wal-Mart and needed to get recorded somewhere. It was inspired by someone who asked me yesterday if I’d ever considered ghost writing for rappers. The answer is not really. I write because I love it and I respect dope artists, emcees and song writers for what they do. I’ve been writing far longer than I’ve been designing, but I hold onto it in a weird way as something sacred since it’s one of the last things I do creatively that hasn’t made me any money. I’m not a rapper. I’m a writer.

For those of you who can’t understand what the hell I’m saying, here’s the piece in writing:

I guess I could do more for a hefty fee,
And a good talk, see I’m awkward like lefties be
When they box. That’s south paw.
I’m north and east.
You got your mouth all grilled and I’m the Foreman feast.
The G’s say I’m adorable,
Say your boy could teach cus I’m smart.
But for a start, “Come to the dorm at least”.
I don’t want nun, like priests,
But I was born to preach.
I’m a father, spirit and son,
And I’ve been sworn to each.
Don’t get it crossed, still turn a crew to a crucifix,
And turn a brew into a useless 6.
All empty.
So high, wish I could die.
In Autumn the fall tempts me.
I won’t deny I been obliged to lie to beat a sentence.
My guys know around me, honesty’s like a vengeance
I’m always carrying out when the bull staring me down.
I’m a matador, and that whore’s more a rodeo clown.
Face and hair made up,
More Fiorio bound.
I’m Morpheus when I’m outcasted,
Fast and furious, I’ll turn to a programmed killing machine.
Azureus downloadable.
Mangler. I rule. The damager.
I aim to handle the vain lames and purposeless.
You’re like Obama, mouth bruised and purple lips.
I’m like a llama, dumb rude and urged to spit.
They say, “No Pain, No Gain”, so it won’t hurt to quit.
I don’t rhyme, I design.
I’ll turn your shirts to shit.
Or do the opposite. Got money? Then offer it.
Got ugly neck deep dirt? Then you an ostrich.
Have you ostracized for a lobster side dish and cruller.
Maneuvering like the Heimlich.
I give a dime a quick 2 cents of pride and then you step aside.
Next thing, she’s all kindsa bitch.
I’m all kindsa broke.
You all kindsa shit.
I’m all kindsa dope.
Get off my rhymes with “Rick”.
I could ghost write your album in a fortnight.
My visions 2 sets of binoculars.
Thats foresight.
Sock it to your boo,
From Silk to Shaka Zulu.
Have her chakras shaking.
I’m made of rocket fuel.
I may have got the tools you bite like a termite.
And I wish you wood.
Make this a word fight.
I earn height, move fast as Dale Earnheart crashed.
I’m full burn-proof and suited when the verbs spark.
This is throwaway cold.
I’m in the snow and sleigh, packed with more gifts than a Nick that’s just a Pole away.
Do it the polar way even on my grizzly.
Bruin in a crew of teddies.
Ya’ll confetti.
That’s small paper, I’d rather we didn’t chop it up.
Let’s not apologize.
You wanna talk for what?
I’m an artist with pieces,
Weaken the hardest shit, pierce right through the cartilige, teeth, hearts or harnesses.
Bet I’m the honest-est,
Outta Toronto West.
Hate is a stripper-top, bitch,
Go get it of your chest.

Peace.

My Treasure Chest

be. — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 15:28:44 +0000

My Treasure Chest
an early morning rant by Bryan Espiritu

The gem means more when its under dirt. Like slumber shirt hems and numbers worth, its long.. as distances ran in tracks. Or lands I ran, and the plans I rack. Whose nack is gold in a wooden chest? Ask out to scouts who should invest… (like undercoats for a tux’s shell). I’m consumed in vacuums, it sucks as well. The diamond shape dons Super’s shirt. The mind escapes, it’s too superb.. too obscure, too without a fix, too without a cure, and breaks bones with sticks. And names will never hurt me, slut. I’ve made an ass of if’s and butts. I’m a smoke burned down to its final ash, a toke, some coke short of throttled trash. Greened with envy like my bottled glass. I’m a thoughtful ride, with a modeled crash. I’m a hot design printed on a shirt, displayed on pages and gone berzerk. Raved on, green, supreme with cash. Leaned on mean til the till collapsed. The laughter came when the joke revealed. She poked my page and provoked the shield. I spoke once, saying that I’d never cheat. But I will move closer for a better seat. A pill through potion and a pint for cheap. A mind like Mogli, resign the chief. If life is golden, I entrust my wrist to a life long promise that I must exist. I’ll commit and admit I’m in touch with this, until the rich ask Discovery to bust the myth. I’m dummy, I’m rummy, I’m crutched and hurt. I’m Johnny, no Cash hurt, and what’s absurd.. the earliest bird’s said to gain the catch. But the earliest worm gets maimed too fast. A murder for necessity’s no heinous act. Electric simplicity, its Raiden’s craft. I’m grave, lost marbles, I’m chipped in stone, and think peace with each punch that my fists condone. I sacrifice words that my lips have sewn, for the fabric of a life, I have risked the poem. I have slipped, hurt hip joints, and missed the mark. I have lists, short bullet points, a quest will Start… (like the button just right of the Nes Select). Control every call. Change. Accept. Collect. Buried in a bushel, 30 years of earth… is a chest with a treasure that appears of worth… to a world I predict that your heart forgot, filled with gold, but your ex, hadn’t marked the spot. And your next is obliged to unleash the catch. From the deep, please release the latch. At last.

Do You Like Assholes?

be. — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 04:28:45 +0000

A lot of people think I’m an asshole. They think I do things with complete disregard for others and I don’t have any concern about the feelings of those around me. A lot of people look at some of what I do and say that I think I’m the shit, or that I’m better than others, or that my shit doesn’t smell like solid farts.

But this isn’t true.. entirely.

First of all, I do know that my poo smells like shit. But hey, at least we have something in common. Second of all, does the stuff that I do that makes people think of me as an asshole negate the things that I do that makes people think, or smile, or laugh, or strive for more? Seriously?

It seems that lately my honesty has been taken as ‘assholism’, so here’s my side of things:

• I say what I want, when I want to, with the utmost respect and consideration in mind for those who are listening to or reading my words.
• I speak with the intention of making people think, laugh, or understand themselves more.
• I will not pull a punch for the sake of buttering up a scenario that is salty enough in the first place.
• If I feel like my words will be hurtful, I don’t always hold my tongue.
• I believe that the benefit of realization is worth the pain of feeling offended.
• I react with a conscious effort at making things as fair as possible to everyone involved at all costs.
• I weigh ‘fairness’ based on merit.
• I do not see any value in lying to be nice.
• I see value in being honest.
• I see value in having respect.
• When I feel disrespected, I will not act like a victim. Fuck that.
• I am not always talking about YOU in my Twitter/Facebook updates.
• I am not necessarily talking about YOU in this post. You’re not the only person I am in contact with.
• My thoughts belong to me and the choice to express them, once again, is mine.
• I separate truth and opinion when being honest.
• Stating an honest opinion without being asked can be very hurtful.
• A truth is an indisputable fact.
• I’m not interested in hurting anyone.
• I will not be apologetic if someone is hurt by me stating the truth.

Tonight my homey asked me what he should say to someone in a particular scenario. I responded honestly. He replied: “You really want me to say that?”. I said: “Yeah, why not?”. The answer I gave him was the honest one, but it seemed that it may come off hurtful even though it wasn’t aggressive or intrusive. It was just stating the true response to a question.

So my questions to you are:

Would you rather your friends lie slightly for the sake of your feelings?
or
Be completely honest in stating the truth, (NOT OPINIONS), without your feelings in mind?
and
Do you think I’m an asshole?
lmao. I love that term.

NOTE: The photo used for this post was chosen because it was a photo of me doing something funny and semi-assholish.

Not Childish, But Child-Like

be. — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 02:32:37 +0000

“Just because it’s in print, doesn’t mean it’s the gospel. People write negative things, because they feel that’s what sells. Good news to them doesn’t sell…. I don’t wanna say too much, it’s a conspiracy. I will never stop helping and loving people the way Jesus said to. He said, ‘Continue to love. Always love. Bring on the children. Imitate the children. Not childish, but child-like.’”

- Michael Jackson

[See post to listen to audio]

I lost a lot of my chance at being a child to the hands of abuse, doctors, therapists and correctional measures. I hope that no other child has to go through what I did. All I have in me is a relentless pursuit of the truth. When I find it, I promise to distribute it. If I don’t, I promise to distribute the lessons of my failures.

I need this. I need this life. And so does our future.
Push forward. Push forward. Fuck that.
Push forward.

Boonaa Mohammed: Pursuit of Perfection

be. — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 16:06:19 +0000

Check out this video (via 1LOVETO) of my dude Boonaa Mohammed performing his piece, “Pursuit of Perfection” on the westbound train in Toronto. I’ve always felt that there’s genius in well written comedy, there is genius in “playing silence”, and genius in well-collected thoughts put into words. Boonaa has mastered all of these things and puts them on display to the passengers of this train.

Take a good listen at what he’s saying. He is talking to you as much as he is talking about himself.

Check out Dead Time, which I posted in October of 08.

2000-2010: A Decade in My Life

be. — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 03:55:42 +0000

Here is the abbreviated version of some of the events of my life over the past 10 years. If you get a chance to do this for yourself, I highly recommend it. It gives you a little bit of insight into your own progress. The order may be a bit off, but it’s all true and I’ll probably end up adding more to it for my own sake. Enjoy.

The Decade.

Hit legal drinking age.
Graduated from high school.
Went to commencement through donations from students.
Applied for college.
Didn’t get accepted to the school I wanted to go to.
Went to college.
Sucked.
Failed typography.
Dropped out of college.
Turned 20
Broke up with my babymother.
Moved back home with my parents.
Fell in love.
Fell harder into alcohol.
Became an alcoholic.
Loved hard but fought dangerously harder.
Started robbing people.
Continued pick-pocketing and petty thieving.
Quit smoking cigarettes.
Kept smoking weed.
Regular fist fights at bars.
Accidentally pick-pocketed a friends girlfriend.
Threw her ID out the window.
Mailed the letter from her mom and her wallet back anonymously.
Risked friendships for money.
Risked friendships for alcohol.
Realized how distanced I had become from my daughter.
Still drank Colt 45s for the taste.
Same bars.
Same clubs.
Same music.
Same people.
Still broke.
Homies fucking ex’s.
Not having homies.
Stopped b-boying.
Went back on meds.
Abused pills and painkillers.
Abused my girlfriend.
Was found by Gavin Sheppard.
Got paid $60 for a flyer design for a k-os show.
Wrote every day.
Drank every day.
Met Brock.
Schizophrenia Schizophrenia Schizophrenia.
Depression.
Hallucinations.
Voices.
Suicide.
Went to college again.
Panic.
Dropped out of college again.
Performed at open mics.
Recorded poetry.
Panic attacks at award shows.
Cheek got cut open.
Sold a bit of weed.
Made a bit of money.
Didn’t really make any money.
Passed out on Eglinton Ave with 2 pints.
Picked up by good cop.
ICVisions.
Learned how to use Photoshop from scanning drawings.
Stole clothes.
Wore blazers.
Bad denim.
Dreads.
Still Broke.
Casey sized pints.
Drove to Florida with less than $200 in my pocket.
Broke her heart.
Broke my own.
4 family members.
No talking to each other.
Climbed out of cab windows on the highway.
Climbed out of bus windows on the bus.
Posted it on YouTube.
Fell in lust with a dread.
Felt unwanted.
Felt confused.
Pulled corkscrews on people.
Beat innocent bystanders.
Fractured hand in early morning 5 on 5 fight.
Always scared.
Bit his thumb.
Reilley’s.
Met Drake.
Choked out friends.
Kicked friends in the face when they were down.
Felt down.
Met Rose.
Years at HMV.
Courtney.
Nana.
Mikey.
Gabe.
Steph.
Laughter.
Crushes.
Fell back in love.
Years and years.
Never met her Italian side.
Couldn’t say I had a daughter.
Moonshine shots.
Break ups.
Make up sex.
Got my nose punched in at the club.
Smashed a glass on her face.
World started spiraling down.
Broken windshields.
2×4’s.
Running from the police.
Sliced wrists.
Stitches.
Admission into the hospital my daughter was born at.
Poetry.
Poetry.
Learned Illustrator.
Did logos.
Made money.
Did flyers.
Made money.
Did press packages.
Made money.
Drank it all away.
Bought shoes.
Worked at Tim Horton’s full time.
Worked at HMV at night.
Felt like a bum.
Slept behind stores.
Slept in alleys wearing $300 denim.
Cuts and bruises.
Got my ass kicked at the movie theatre.
Went to Mexico.
Read the Prophet.
Went back to RockSteady.
Nelly Furtado.
Bus trips.
Fell in love with Los Angeles.
Crystal Meth.
Wake Up.
Tweak.
Old homies turned addicts.
Daughter tells me she doesn’t love me.
I stick around and do what I can to still be in her life.
Continued having dreams of success.
Graphic Design.
Clothing Lines.
Continued having dreams of success.
4GB computer.
No saving images.
Napster.
Dial-Up.
Serial Monogamy.
Gifts.
Deaths of friends.
Mistakes.
Mistrust.
Foolishness.
Guns under the seat.
Near brushes.
Loved for the sake of love.
Finally broke up with the ex.
Met my dream girl.
Butterflies.
Approached her all nervous as hell.
It worked.
We worked.
Loved again.
For the first time.
Got filled with excitement.
Happiness through the pain.
Laughter through the frowns.
Still an alcoholic.
Celebrated 1 month of dating.
Abused an innocent man sitting on his porch while walking to the venue.
Fought with him until the police came.
Punched the cops.
Got my ass kicked by the police.
2 sets of cuffs.
6 officers.
14 Division.
Spat on. Slapped. Pushed around. Naked.
Bleeding out of my ears.
Couldn’t walk from the baton to my knee.
Couldn’t see out the swelling of my eye.
Bets being made by the other dudes in the cells to see who did this to me.
Got bailed out by my father of all people.
Girl of my dreams left me because of my violence and alcoholism.
Lost her love.
Lost all sense.
Lost 45lbs in less than 2 months.
House arrest.
Huge fights within the family.
Quit drinking liquor cold turkey.
Quit smoking cigarettes cold turkey.
Started working out.
Regained her trust.
Beat the case and was ready to make a move.
Saved up for a computer.
Worked on my skills.
Conceptualized TheLegendsLeague.
Started writing about my life.
People on MySpace took interest in my work.
Created a following through friends.
The following grew through word of mouth.
Met Che.
Met Zaki.
Gained friends.
Lost friends.
Designed R.I.P. shirts.
The Year of the Gun.
Everyone losing somebody.
Got a job doing drawings for Axe deodorant.
Still on probation for 3 assault charges.
Lost my Auntie.
Got hired as an in-house Illustrator and Graphic Designer at a marketing agency.
Designed the Canadian launch campaign for PlayStation 3.
Dreams started to become reality.
Reintroduced myself into Toronto’s “scene” to skeptics and kids who didn’t know who I was.
Felt lost.
Had faith.
Released The Jameses Tee.
Got picked up by investors.
T.O. Don’t Love U.
Investors screwed me.
Left the corporate world for The Remix Project.
Met hustleGRL.
Felt at home.
Strippers fucked up my shit.
Friends gone sour.
More money more problems.
Suicide attempt.
IdeallClothing gained momentum.
The blog gained momentum.
$25,000 pay increase.
Left Remix for the money.
Met Will.
Parents finally split up.
Childhood home got sold.
Lost job to the economy.
10 months hustling TheLegendsLeague and IdeallClothing.
$10,000 months.
5 Year Anniversary with the lady.
10 Year old daughter.
Interviews.
Photoshoots.
Facebook.
Twitter.
Clarity.
Uncertainty.
A.D.D.
Completed P90X.
Realized my realest friends are those I knew from the sandbox days.
Reconciled with my mother.
Reconciled with my sister.
Reconciled with my father.
Regained tremendous love for my cousins.
Realized my dreams are possible.
Never asked for favors.
Never put my pride before my honesty.
Never forgot where I came from or what I’ve gone through.
Never lied.
Never cheated.
Stayed honest.
Shared my life.
Attached my heart and soul to the life of my daughter.
Attached the same to the love of my lady.
Wrote a book.
Took a chance.
Believed in myself in full.
Planned to open the official LegendsLeague office/studio space.
Crossed fingers.
Put my chin up.
And went for it.

Happy New Year guys. Thank you so much for your support over the years. I appreciate it and I’m excited to share the future of my company and my brand with you guys in the years to come.

LLove & Respect as usual,
be.