Just Because I Died That Doesn’t Give You Permission To Post Pictures From That One Time I Had Loc Extensions

I recently died. And while I’m sad that I’ve left the world, there’s an overwhelming calmness in my body, telling me that it was my time to go, and that everything’s gonna be alright.

Is what I would say, if I couldn’t see all the tributes my friends and family are currently posting for me on Instagram. Some of these niggas aren’t even sad that I died, they’re just glad they can finally post that one picture of me eating curly fries with that White girl.

All in the caption talking about, “You made the world a brighter place,” and then the picture above is that one time I had loc extensions. Y’all know what the fuck y’all are doing. You never, even in death, post a picture of a black man’s sister locs era. It was college, and I had just discovered v-necks and Pan-Africanism for the first time. Fuck you.

All the worst eras of my life are being chronicled for the world to see right now. It’s like everyone’s against me. My girl’s posting pictures from when we first met, and I was broke as fuck and really into having toothpicks in my mouth. Ol’ dude who I used to canvas for Obama with is putting up throwbacks. Even my mom just posted a video of me dancing to R. Kelly. Bitch I was eight!

I’m at the gates of Heaven right now. God keeps telling me to come in, but I gotta keep an eye on this shit. It’s getting crucial. He giving me ultimatums like, “Come in in the next five minutes, or return to Earth as a ghost, forever.” And I mean yeah, Heaven seem cool and shit, but niggas is posting videos of me doing the baby wobble. You know what I’m saying?

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