#MNR: BUYER’S REMORSE
 
“You feel this deep in your torso. Feel like someone’s reading your horoscope. Some shit only me and the Lord knows.”
Travis Scott
 
“Emotional luggage, nothing of it, I don’t check bags. I just carry on, leave that bullshit in the past.”
Curren$y
 
“You know your town is dangerous, when you see the strangest kid come home from doing a bid and nothing changes.”
GZA
 
Ok, y’all. Your boy has been quite proactive this holiday season. I copped some gifts and all that, you heard? Usually...usually I don’t give one fuck. I’m not Kris Kringle. I’m a poor Black man that works OD hard for my rupees. In other words, I ain’t got it. But, you know what? Even though I’m a single man with no earthly mother, my holiday assignment has not waned. It has only increased. Obviously, I’m crying like a rat eating raw onions because I’d much rather spend that bread on myself. What? Did I say something wrong? At least I kept it a buck. No one loves me like I love me. But I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. Let’s get our holiday on, y’all.
 
I’m just bad news...
 
As much as I hate to admit it, I am. I’m a good human. That I know in my spirit. But I am bad fucking news. I’m Brainy Smurf meets Kevin Sabian meets Keyser Söze. I’m a got-damned know-it-all who always tries to negotiate peace yet exhibits underlying sociopathic tendencies. I could’ve played the lead in American Psycho. I exhibit levels of narcissism, often used to counteract bouts of self-loathing. I’m all over the fucking place. I crack jokes and maintain an amicable exterior to mask my morose view of reality. I’m not the best at communicating with my blood family. I love them all dearly, but I’m not the type to reach out just to say hello at this stage of life. As long as they’re in good health and spirit...cool. I’m fair; I don’t expect anything different in return. I have emotional issues I can’t really express because I can’t fully interpret them. Plus, they’re dormant. They are suppressed somewhere just below the 1 train 191st Street Station (IYKYK) in the Heights. After saying all that, I’m sure you’re thinking that I’m depressed. I’m far from it. I feel like a million euros, cash money. Life is good. Sure, my short term economic outlook is shaky (exacerbated by holiday shopping), but I’m ten toes down on my grind and I like the long term outlook. Every day is a blessing that I am grateful for and attack with voracity and grit. I have nary a complaint. But every now and then, around the time I sit and let the sick thoughts enter, I take it to DEFCON 1.
 
PRAY FOR PALESTINE. I don’t pick sides, but I’m on y’all side.
 
 
In a recent interview, Bryce Wilson said that Groove Theory’s second album would have easily gone multiplatinum. He felt that they had perfected the recipe after their self-titled debut album. That album was a solid 7.5 in my book. It had two classic tracks (if you must ask, ask me later) and another lowkey classic. I’ll give you the lowkey classic: “Ten Minute High.” I also love their Todd Rundgren/Isley Brothers cover “Hello, It’s Me.” Amel had the perfect voice for that track. Ok, ok. Y’all pulled my damn right leg. Y’all pulled the one that twitches when I’m nervous and ‘bout to split a MF forehead wide open. I’ll tell you. The other classic song is “Keep Tryin’.” Winter 1995 – what a time to be alive. “Tell Me” went global in my book. I don’t give a fluff what RIAA says. It played at every party senior year. Ev-er-y. After they dropped the dance hit of the winter, they slowed it down on the second single. “Keep Tryin’” is an amazing song. Amel Larrieux flows so effortlessly over Bryce’s production. It’s sultry in a nonsexual way. Listening to that track will inspire you to work a double shift after going on an all-night cocaine bender. But back to the sophomore album. Bryce said they would have done something similar to what The Fugees did. I’m jacking it because their debut was leaps and bounds above that bullshit The Fugees put out the first time around. What prevented the sophomore album from being their The Score, you may ask? Bryce said Amel was on her ultra-diva shit. The man said she wanted production credit even though she didn’t lay not one damn beat. She wanted 60% of their publishing after agreeing to a 50-50 split. Non-cipher. Remember this: Amel was relatively unknown outside of Philadelphia before Groove Theory came to be. Bryce had production credits with Mantronix at like seventeen years of age. His name was the one that carried weight going into the project. He also said Amel had first crack at “You’re Making Me High.” YES, that “You’re Making Me High.” She had dibs before Toni. The man said Amel wanted production rights on the track. He told Amel and her entourage to get the fuck out of his studio – over the phone. I love Amel Larrieux. I always will. She follows me on the Twitter. But I’ve heard about her diva mentality for a long time. I’m not mad at her or Bryce. They gave us a classic. But damn...what could have been.
 
RANDOM: I didn’t feel sorry for the fat Puerto Rican kid who got killed in Fresh, even though he was Fresh’s manz. Fat boy had it coming. But, in direct contrast, I damn near cried when teenage Donald Faison got killed in Sugar Hill. When you think on it for a taste, he too had it coming. And when you really think about it, both died for the same reason – wanting to be down. The fat kid thought he could run with and outsmart grown wolves on some drugs shit; he had an anchor tied to his ankle off jump. And Fresh warned his dumb ass. But Donald’s character...I will always feel empathy for him because all he was guilty of was wanting to be down. He shouldn’t have had his ass on the block that night. He should have been in his new crib in the ‘burbs. And just like Fresh shot fatty a warning, Roemello basically suggested that Donald had no purpose in coming back around the block. But he had a good heart. He just wanted to be down. There was nothing insidious in his approach. He would’ve held it down for Roemello if need be (or at least attempted to). But, at the end of the day, he should have had his ass in the crib. Quiet hours. The shit is kind of deep when you think about it. This is the type of shit I ponder from time to time. Fuck is my problem?
 
NOT RANDOM: The scene in Fresh at the basketball court when the bitch ass nigga shoots the younger kid (because he was doing him dirty with the handles) and lil mama who Fresh had mutual feelings for (she caught a stray) will always haunt my soul. I’ll never forget that slug stuck in her neck, her little leg twitching, or Fresh’s empathetic yet stoic reaction. Fresh is one of the best movies I’ve ever seen.
 
It's been a minute since I gave you good folk an outro paragraph to conclude the blog. I’ve just been dropping the microphone and walking off after a Dame Lillard buzzer beater from 32 feet. Swish. All jokes aside, I hope y’all had a good Turkey Day and extended break from the slave (if you read Malcolm’s autobiography you know). It was back to work today. My day. Ty Monday. But look at it this way, as shitty as the prospect of the beginning of an arduous work week can seem, we’ve already got one in the books by the time you read this. And just like that, 20% of the shit is done. Now comes the rest of the gauntlet before the next weekend begins. I live for the weekends, but I fret over the work week. Why? Because for many a year now, I’ve made sure that I do my best to treat every evening like a Friday evening – until it’s time to go to bed. What I’m saying is that I don’t deprive myself of capricious fuckery during the week. I galavant through the evening on my Don Quixote de la Mancha type shit. I turn my brain and phone off (unless you really, really matter), then I enjoy myself. The point is this: live before you die. Don’t deprive yourself. Now, make sure the kids are straight. Don’t go AWOL and all. But find the time for a daily by myself meeting. We only have one life to live. Enjoy this shit. And spread the word. #MNR is the best 5-minute read in America. I stand on that. Until next time, y’all. I’m out through the back dough (door).
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: CORPORATE BAILOUTS
 
“The Chinaman built the railroad. The Indian saved the pilgrim, and in return the pilgrim killed him. They call it Thanksgiving; I call your holiday Hell Day. ‘Cause I’m from poverty, neglected by the wealthy.”
Nasir Jones
 
“You no kin to me so how the fuck you inherit my style?”
Kurupt
 
My nigga @BigRich1128, you know he’s down with us. @Damn_she_tall_2 and @DirttMcGirt, down with us. The good brother @alexjuli6n is down with us. @Devinpsu and @carribeanflavaz, you know they’re down with us. The one and only @iamdjgreen, he’s down with us. @GrBest1yet and @_RMCMB are down with us. My nephew @FourCornerConvo is down with us. @TakeALSmoove and @BrightBlueSlang, you know they’re down with us. Fly mama @designer_clothe – down with us. @LeekMJB and @RealMalcB are down with us. My nigga @PayHomage is down with us. My bruva @MELVVLN, you know he’s down with us. It’s UnB, nigga, we’ve got the game in the tuck. We’re number...
 
One.
 
Big ups to all my folk who don’t fuck with the social medias but support this blog. Y’all are most definitely down with us. Big ups to the ladies of the Black Atlas Mafia: JuJu, ShanT and Nella. They don’t fuck with that Twitter shit, but they tune in. You three are loved and appreciated. Just wait until Nella starts her blog up. She’s going to get super busy. I love her sagacity. We’re going to drop the next great YouTube Black politics channel one day. I know y’all finna tune in. When we go global I’m a have to get my teeth fixed. I think I’m going to go with the Cameron Giles model. Pause, if necessary.
 
It just so happens that I got a jump on this week’s blog. I’m up into the wee hours on a Saturday night. My creative juices are flowing, and I’ve got enough reefa to get the 2000 Portland Trailblazers from Oracle Arena in Oaktown to Staples Center in downtown Los Scandalous on a Greyhound bus with the AC on “fuck you” and the “check engine” light on the entire MF ride. I love to write deep into the late night. I take a few pulls of the J, sit back, and let the sick thoughts enter. I always have the deepest affinity for blogs that are birthed simply through sitting at the Mac and letting my fingers go, sort of how Sugar Ray flurried at the end of each round the night Marvelous Marvin Hagler was cheated. The difference between Sugar Ray and your boy Monday is that I’m not stealing points. There’s no chicanery on this side. This shit is authentic, like the Washington Capitals Alexander Ovechkin alternate jersey with the captain patch I procured through scrupulous means. It’s only right that I mention a hockey jersey because I skate all over the keyboard – effortlessly. I make love with each keystroke. This is very serious business. Supreme shouts out to those of y’all who tune in every Monday like we’re broadcast on ESPN. That’s a beautiful thing. And hey...even if it’s Tuesday morning, afternoon, evening, or whenever the fuck you get a few minutes to yourself to tune in...we appreciate you. You heard?
 
We are in the fourth quarter of 2023. We’re looking 2024 dead in the face. I’m talmbout the Olympics and errthang. Look, I’m finna get straight to the point. If you’re wearing a du-rag and it’s not a silky, I’m a need you to make moves to the beauty supply store and rectify the situation. Immechiately. It’s non-cipher, and frankly, I feel that it’s nasty work. I don’t think it’s fair that you have us all in a long-ass Target checkout line staring at your $2.99, two-tone, porous, short-string nylon dooey with the minimum hangtime cape. Shit looks like a restaurant dinner napkin. The whites are looking at you like you’re dirty and you stink. The college kids standing in line with 246 pair of pajama bottoms are pondering if you gave up on social conformity and went smooth into fuck-it mode. I’m looking at you like you have crumbs in at least two of the pockets on your clothing. Flagrant #1 foul. Two shots and the ball. I’m a need you type of Negroes to stay in the crib. Looking like Hustle Man with those damn pigeons on a stick.
 
UPDATE: Speaking of Hustle Man, I saw/met/? Tracey Morgan in my friendly neighborhood ShopRite during my Sunday afternoon grocery store experience. That is all.
 
Big ups to my brother, the CEO. 11.19 was his born day. That man is getting old, which is a blessing. He and I go back quite a few years now. He’s still the same person I met 20 years ago. He’s a benevolent man who would literally give his last for his folk. This is completely random, but when that man was the Assistant Director of an old after school program I was a part of, he knew the first and last names of EVERY student in the program, more than 300 altogether. He also knew where they were located. Always. That’s why I call him CEO; he has key traits found in CEOs. The only thing he lacks is true belief in self. He’s brilliant. I’ve seen it for years. But it’s cool. That’s why I’m around. One thing I know how to do is remind my folk of how great they are. He’s the only creative partner I’ve ever had; he is one half of 2NN. We’re going to have our time. Just keep the faith. More life, my brother.
 
On Thursday, most filthy Americans will sit at a familial dinner table and celebrate a holiday known as Thanksgiving to the United States of America. The white folk taught us in public schools that the Indian and white man one day decided to sit down and commune. The books say the white man gave thanks to the indigenous man for saving his unprepared, ignorant ass from calamity. He arrived in the Americas with no type of strategic plan, suffered like a MF, and needed the first corporate bailout in American history to avoid extinction on this side of the Atlantic. God bless the indigenous man. Now, most civilized folk would have cherished the indigenous man forever and a day. Not the white man. The white man went on to rape, pillage, kill and steal the indigenous man’s land. Yadda, yadda, yadda...we celebrate Thanksgiving. Fuck Thanksgiving. I’m with Nasir. I call your holiday Hell Day. I will never celebrate Thanksgiving. I will eat and watch football, however. I will also watch the virtual battles CAPS is hosting on Angryfan007. I call it a day of thanks. I give thanks daily, so every day is a day of thanksgiving. Eat, drink and be merry. Just don’t forget the perpetual savagery of the white man.
 
The yadda, yadda, yadda line really works if you’ve seen the Seinfeld episode. Jerry and Larry were brilliant.
 
Enjoy your time with loved ones this week. Nothing is for sure, nothing is for certain, nothing lasts forever. But until they close the curtains...
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: MAKES ME WANNA HOLLER
 
“As I recall, I know you love to show off. But I never thought that you would take it this far. What do I know? (FLASHING LIGHTS) What do I know? (FLASHING LIGHTS) Know.”
Dwele (Yeezy)
 
“If we can take off now, we can catch the sun. Maybe watch it set, have sex, get some rest.”
Lil Baby
 
Good evening. How y’all? It’s Monday, your friendly neighborhood playboy. I’m higher than NY sales tax, you heard? That’s always a great thing, err umm, the me being high part. NY sales tax ain’t nothing but the Albany devil. I just finished talking to my ace and I’m pumping “Flashing Lights” through my soundbar. So much has changed since 210 E. 115th Street apartment 2A. But this song, this album...I miss those days. I remember a particular Friday evening. I just got back from work in the Wood: NJ Transit 186 Bus to the MTA M98 Limited Express Bus to 116th St and Lexington Ave to the weed spot to the [pick one] eatery to the bodega to the block. I hit the block. I dapped up whoever was standing outside the building. I walked my ass up the A-stairs because it’s shameful waiting for a pissy elevator to travel one flight; take the possibly pissy staircase. In all fairness, most stairway pissers prefer the B-stairs (see 100 Blocks Stories: “B-Stairs Prelude” for further context) out of whatever respect they do have for the building. Anyway, as soon as I get to the 2nd floor landing I can hear Yeezy and my nigga Dwele blasting through the hallway door. At that moment, the weekend officially began. I already knew it was Jose blasting the sounds. I already knew he was semi-litty. I have no idea what I ate for dinner that night. I have no idea how many blunts I smoked. I have no idea what alcohol I drank. I do know that those were some of the happiest moments of my life, all of us in one apartment. Aunt Betty had transcended, but my mom and dad were still alive and relatively healthy, living their respective lives in Virginia and North Carolina. The older I get, the more I embrace random memories that occurred while my mom and dad were alive. Innately, it makes my own mortality an afterthought for those fleeting moments of nostalgia.
 
Let me tell y’all something. I really love y’all and I’m dedicated to this blog, through it all. I have a prospective freelance position and need to produce one more article in short time. I also need to tweak my resume to only include my Communications experience. But fuck all that. I promised my folk that I was going to stay consistent. That’s what I plan to do. I hope y’all got y’all cheeba rolled in the finest paper. Light that shit up. We L riding in a low-low from Benny’s with all the Benny enhancements. I’m talmbout downtown Los Santos to deep out Blaine County...on the freeway by the casino...with the radio on Frank Ocean’s station. Crack rock, crack rock...
 
I really do love y’all. The very thought of people reading, accepting and appreciating my craft is so amazing to me. It instantly humbles me. To God be the glory.
 
Respectfully...I’m nice as [CENSORED].
 
Fuck is the censored word. I just didn’t want to put it directly under “To God be the glory.” I give all praises to Him. He blessed me with this craft. I’m not bragging. I’m merely asserting my brilliance and command of the lexicon and all dat, youknowI’msaying? You do? Well alright (Nipsey from Martin voice – RIP).
 
First things first. CONGRATULATIONS TO THE VIRGINIA UNION PANTHERS, 2023 CIAA FOOTBALL CHAMPIONS! Coach Alvin Parker’s men defeated defending conference champion Fayetteville State, 21-10. VUU (10-1) was led by First-Team All-CIAA back Jada Byers, who found his way to paydirt twice during the contest. He carried the ball 40 times for 135 yards. His carries set the tone on offense and the defense brought their best to the field in Salem, as the lone FSU touchdown came on a kickoff return. The win also meant that the Panthers avenged their only loss of the season, a September game played in typhoon-like conditions. This is Virginia Union’s first conference championship since the 2001 team led by QB Jasun Thompson. As an alumnus of VUU, I’m very proud of this team. 1865 Panther Pride.
 
I would like to revisit a portion of the 3.22.2022 #MNR, titled “To the East, Blackwards.”
 
There have been seven military coups and conflicts on the continent of Africa in the past six years: Guinea, Mali, Chad, Sudan, Burkina Faso, Cameroon, and Ethiopia. The last two are currently engaged in civil war. Cameroon is engaged in the Anglophone Crisis, and Ethiopia is engaged in the Tigray War. Each coup and conflict tears at the fabric of its respective nation, and deep humanitarian crises (including sexual violence) have developed. It comes as no surprise that the United States has done the bare minimum by way of direct support to many (or all) of these countries. tRump outright blocked aid to Ethiopia; Biden’s merely done a lot of talking. Look, I’m not saying America owes these nations a damn thing. I’m just seeing and recognizing the apathy when it comes to Mother Africa and absolute empathy when it comes to lighter skinned [European] nations in peril. It shouldn’t be and isn’t a surprise. America has already [REDACTED] the continent for all it wanted to plunder. What may come as an absolute surprise is that Russia has given aid to several African nations in peril. They’ve helped with infrastructure, amongst other things. This is likely the reason that sixteen African countries who are members of the United Nations gave a no vote/abstained from taking sides on Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. They’ve chosen to mind their damn business. And, in the most polite manner, they’re showing that they could care less about the Russia/Ukraine war. They’ve got more than enough on their own plates to deal with.
 
Why did I choose to revisit this blog from a year-and-a-half ago? Because I have inner visions. I see things before most eyes get the opportunity. I pay attention with soft eyes. Last week, the United Nations warned that violence amongst civilians in Sudan is “verging on pure evil.” More than half of the Sudanese population, or about 25M people, need humanitarian help and more than 70% of health facilities in the conflict areas are now out of service, resulting in outbreaks of cholera, dengue, malaria and measles, and high levels of malnutrition among children. The UN is targeting about 12M people for aid and has appealed for another $2.6B. There are numerous reports of sexual and gender-based violence and forced disappearance, arbitrary detentions and grave violations of human and children’s rights.
 
The war is nearly seven months old. My 3.22.2022 blog predates the war by almost a year. I spoke on the problems Sudan and several other African nations were facing way back then. Nothing has changed. The UN must do all the bidding because African nations in peril are not close friends or allies of the United States and its wealthy allies. I don’t remember any Sleepy Joe State of the Union Address where he directly appeals to congress for monetary aid to any of the previously mentioned nations. Not one damn dollar. Translation: he and America don’t give a fuck. But I do. The African nations are my people. Don’t mention anything about Ukraine or Israel to me, respectfully. My concern is with my folk. It always has been. It always will be. I stand with us. I always will.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG

#MNR: MAUNA KEA
 
“I’m stuck in your claws. I try to run but I don’t get far.”
Brent Faiyaz
 
“Mama – I just killed a man.”
Freddie Mercury
 
What up, niggas, how y’all? It’s Monday, the villain. It’s another beautiful Monday morning in the melancholy metro. The sun shone so bright through the Hudson Yards skyscrapers during my ride into midtown that I couldn’t get my good eye on One and Two Manhattan West, the twin towers on 31st Street and 9th Avenue. Though they are only 58-stories tall, they are aesthetically pleasing to a skyscraper enthusiast such as myself. Their glass exteriors make them a sight to behold, but the intrigue lies within actually seeing the two towers. Depending on your angle of sight, you may only be able to see one of the towers, as the other would be hiding directly behind. Like I said, though they are less than 60-stories tall (996 ft), they are a lovely sight. They’re no 270 Park Avenue, but they are beautiful. I’m eager to visit Dubai, only so I can return home and proclaim with absolute certainty that even though it has the most skyscrapers of any city on earth, it’s not fucking with my hometown. If I start a GoFundMe to raise the Fly Emirates travel and 5-star luxury hotel stay, would y’all contribute? The only acceptable answer is yes. Appreciate y’all.
 
The following segment of #MNR is dedicated to all the try-hards out there. Peace to all you MF out there doing the most for no damn reason at all. We can always count on you to turn a grain of sand into Mauna Kea. In the exact moment when no one asked you a got damn thing whatsoever, you made it your business to share your primitive thoughts. You always find a way to make nothing into something. You’re a grade-A try-hard. I, on behalf of all of us out there who are subject to this type of bullshit from time to time, implore you to sit your dumb ass the fuck down and shut your dumb ass the fuck up. No one asked you. No one gives a fuck. No one sought your opinion. No one gives a fuck. Go find a rock to kick. Fucker.
 
I’m sooooooooo glad I got off those blunts, y’all. That tobacco ain’t nothing but the devil. I’m convinced that I was as addicted to the leaf as I was to the flower. It took some time to completely shake the tobacco leaf, but I’m good frfr. Nah, like really good. Louie copped a two-pack of cigarillos the first time we ciphed during the homecoming trip, thinking I still smoked blunts. I informed him that I too had moved on from ‘em. I struggled through that damn L. I felt like George Foreman (old ass man George) jabbed me straight in the middle of my breastplates. Then a Tuesday ago I smoked a J with a coworker on my way to Port Authority after work and this nigga smokes Grabba. I damn near passed out on 38th. I felt a wheeze in my chest, followed by a pain akin to being stabbed in a rumble by Pony Boy in The Outsiders. For those who are unacquainted, Grabba is ground tobacco. Plenty of people up top who smoke J’s like to add Grabba to their flower in a white boy. The only reason I can even comprehend smoking ground tobacco is that NYC tobacco prices are so high that only a fool or rapper smokes blunts. A pack of Backwoods is $17.50 at Gardenia on 30th and 8th Avenue (my favorite deli in Chelsea). Packs go for more than twenty cash in certain spots downtown. I’m guessing that Grabba gives some smokers the blunt feeling. Fuck if I know. I just know that if I wanted to smoke tobacco, I’d smoke blunts. And if I couldn’t afford to smoke blunts, my J’s would be anti-Grabba. But that’s me. Carry on, mongrels. Continue to pollute your lungs with the tobacco leaf. I put my 30 in. I’m through, mane (Sly Stone voice).
 
Look, I don’t give a fuck who you vote for. I don’t. I just want you to take your sorry ass down to your precinct and vote tomorrow. It’s not a presidential election year, but plenty of state and local ballots will be ripe with candidates and legislation. These candidates and potential legislation have a direct effect on your everyday life. Virginia is voting for every seat in their state legislature. That’s 40 state Senate seats and 100 state House seats on the ballot. Reproductive rights are a hot-button topic. Loudoun County, VA, home to one of America’s best public-school systems, has school board elections on the ballot Tuesday. Why does this matter? Because since 2020, far-right lawyers, politicians and parents have pushed to drastically reshape the objectives and curriculum of the school district. Education (and a Freudian slip) cost Terry McAuliffe the Virginia governor’s race two years ago. Stakes are high all over the country. MAGAt is relentless in its attempt to turn America back into Little House on the Prairie. I don’t ever recall seeing a colored on nay episode, get what I’m saying? It all comes down to this: one side is steadfast in its attempt to strip Americans of rights while the other side is steadfast in its attempt to protect rights. The choice is yours from there.
 
Shout out to my old coworker Carla. She texted me last week and told me she was looking forward to #MNR. That meant a lot. I do this for y’all. I appreciate y’all. With no audience, #MNR doesn’t exist. I’ll see y’all next week. I promise I’m a be on the exact same shit. Ain’t nothing changed but the drawz. Keep your eyes off mine ma, while I watch yours. RIP Chico Del Vec.
 
FUN FACT: Mauna Kea’s (HI, USA) total height is 30, 610 ft, making it a full 1.5K ft taller than Mt. Everest. Only 13,796 ft of Mauna Kea is above sea level. All 29,032 ft of Mt. Everest is above sea level.
 
tymonday.com: @tymonday on Twitter & IG
crewunb.com: @crewunB on Twitter & @theunbearablescrew on IG