There is a separate world outside of reality that gives folks a chance to get lost within themselves. We call this the Instagram world. In the Instagram world these days girls with low self esteem are getting fake stuff put in their butts and fake stuff put in their chest for a few likes. they are chasing a thing called “Instagram fame ” Where 250 thousand people follow you but in reality no one knows who the hell you are.
We live in a world where a family called the Kardashians are famous. Not famous in the sense that they possess a talent that is a showcase for folks to gravitate towards but famous for just being famous. We live in a world on Instagram where rappers are not just rappers but actors. Not actors in the sense that they play characters that’s not who they are. But actors in the sense that they play characters that’s NOT who they are. Between fake beefs, fake tough guys and fake jewelry I don’t know what to believe these days.
What’s Instagram really about?
Is it to show us who we really are or who we really wish we were if the cameras really followed us.
What are we searching for? Is it a form of fame or just money? When does this train stop so that all the people that wish they never got on finally get off. And what does getting off that train really mean? Is a part of it accepting the real you? Where do you go when you can’t find who you really have become?
That’s usually when you get lowered back to the fake existence of what you think you need for attention: Instagram world.
You’ve made just enough safe choices to stay alive, but not enough to matter.
Is that what you want? You can be more.
You want to be more, don’t you? The window of opportunity is closing.
This is your chance.
This is not about not losing.
This is about you finally having the confidence to walk out on the ledge and know that you’re not going to fall.
After starting off the season 46-13, the wheels fell off for the Indiana Pacers.
Going 10-13 in the final 23 games of the regular season and nearly being knocked off by an Atlanta Hawks team that tried so hard NOT to make the playoffs, the Pacers, for one reason or another, were a completely different team.
Roy Hibbert went from being an All-Star to playing like the eighth man off the bench. Paul George went from an MVP candidate to someone that raises serious questions on whether he can be a “face of the franchise” type player even though so many were so quick to catapult his status.
There’s some good in these Pacers. They reached the conference finals for two consecutive seasons. They were the number one seed in the east and their core is young.
But they are extremely flawed.
Some fans can hang onto coach Frank Vogel’s words in the press conference after their game six loss saying they faced “the Chicago Bulls of this era.” Making four consecutive NBA Finals is nothing to sneeze at. Not even Michael Jordan’s Bulls did that.
But the Pacers were supposed to be better this season. They lost to Miami in seven games last postseason and vowed all year to get one-seed so they can have game seven on their home floor. Yet somehow with a better record and the coveted top seed, Indiana took a step back.
Many seem to take blame with Lance Stephenson. “Never good to tug on Superman’s cape” Frank Vogel said. He was magnified for his antics with LeBron James. But at least you knew the guy was coming to play and give it his all every night.
Where was Hibbert the whole second half of this season? He posted more donuts than Dunkin.
George Hill has no business being a starting point guard in this league.
And last but certainly not least, the almighty Paul George. The player most thought could finally take down “The King.”
Outside of a great game five performance where James was in severe foul trouble all night, George wasn’t anything to write home about. Far from the player he was in last year’s conference final.
28 of his 29 points in game six were useless. He scored one point in the first 24 minutes while his team trailed by 26 in the biggest game of the year.
He called out Stephenson for his immaturity while criticizing officiating in the same breath. All while being hit with a paternity suit after impregnating a stripper and was also rumored to have slept with Hibbert’s wife, his “best friend” on the team.
This team is in need of a serious identity change. Paul George is a good second piece and great third piece on a championship team, but he can’t be your first offensive option. He has too many inconsistencies to carry the scoring load.
George Hill is arguably one of the three worst starting point guards in the entire league and is much better suited in a backup role on a contending team.
Roy Hibbert is set to make $15 million each of the next two seasons and there’s word from his “camp” that he wouldn’t oppose to being traded.
If there’s anything to learn from J.R. Smith and the New York Knicks, it’s not to give Lance Stephenson more than a one-year contract. You don’t want to be tied to a player that can explode at any minute and be stuck with him for multiple years. An off-season sign-and-trade also wouldn’t be the worst idea for Indiana.
A potential sign-and-trade team could be the Phoenix Suns. Indiana sends over Lance Stephenson, David West and a future first-round pick for Eric Bledsoe and Channing Frye. The trade would likely have a few more parts to it, but with Emeka Okafor’s $14.5 million coming off the books for Phoenix, it gives them flexibility to take back salary in a deal and add quality talent and veteran leadership. And for Indiana, Bledsoe is an explosive talent and Frye can stretch the floor. Two things they could desperately use.
Revamping a roster that’s locked into contracts with Roy Hibbert, David West and George Hill for the next 2-3 years won’t be easy. But the Pacers can’t continue moving forward with a team that fell apart at the end of the season. They clearly don’t have enough firepower to take down Miami, especially if they retain LeBron, Chris Bosh and Dwyane Wade next season.
As Bill Simmons stated after game six, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the Pacers regress like the Knicks did this season. Maybe not 37 wins and missing out on the playoffs, but would it shock anyone if they won 40-45 games if they returned mostly the same group.
These Pacers are certainly better than the Joe Johnson-Josh Smith Hawks but the comparison can still apply. Those Hawks teams were going nowhere and were locked into bad contracts until Danny Ferry came into that organization with a machete and started cutting off parts to revamp the future.
Larry Bird and Donnie Walsh can’t just sit tight. Not with how the season was capped. Something has to be done.
I have kept a hotel room in every town I’ve ever lived in. I rent a hotel room for a few months, leave my home at six, and try to be at work by six-thirty. To write, I lie across the bed, so that this elbow is absolutely encrusted at the end, just so rough with callouses. I never allow the hotel people to change the bed, because I never sleep there. I stay until twelve-thirty or one-thirty in the afternoon, and then I go home and try to breathe; I look at the work around five; I have an orderly dinner—proper, quiet, lovely dinner; and then I go back to work the next morning. Sometimes in hotels I’ll go into the room and there’ll be a note on the floor which says, Dear Miss Angelou, let us change the sheets. We think they are moldy. But I only allow them to come in and empty wastebaskets. I insist that all things are taken off the walls. I don’t want anything in there. I go into the room and I feel as if all my beliefs are suspended. Nothing holds me to anything. No milkmaids, no flowers, nothing. I just want to feel and then when I start to work I’ll remember. I’ll read something, maybe the Psalms, maybe, again, something from Mr. Dunbar, James Weldon Johnson. And I’ll remember how beautiful, how pliable the language is, how it will lend itself. If you pull it, it says, OK.” I remember that and I start to write. Nathaniel Hawthorne says, “Easy reading is damn hard writing.” I try to pull the language in to such a sharpness that it jumps off the page. It must look easy, but it takes me forever to get it to look so easy. Of course, there are those critics—New York critics as a rule—who say, Well, Maya Angelou has a new book out and of course it’s good but then she’s a natural writer. Those are the ones I want to grab by the throat and wrestle to the floor because it takes me forever to get it to sing. I work at the language. On an evening like this, looking out at the auditorium, if I had to write this evening from my point of view, I’d see the rust-red used worn velvet seats and the lightness where people’s backs have rubbed against the back of the seat so that it’s a light orange, then the beautiful colors of the people’s faces, the white, pink-white, beige-white, light beige and brown and tan—I would have to look at all that, at all those faces and the way they sit on top of their necks. When I would end up writing after four hours or five hours in my room, it might sound like, It was a rat that sat on a mat. That’s that. Not a cat. But I would continue to play with it and pull at it and say, I love you. Come to me. I love you. It might take me two or three weeks just to describe what I’m seeing now.- Maya Angelou