mornin’.
Diane closed the door and strutted her wide-hip self over to my bed like she some runway model. I sucked my teeth and rolled my eyes as she stuck out a hand with a “don’t even play with me” look.
“Puff puff give,” she said, imitating Smokey from the movie Friday . “Don’t fuck up the rotation, bitch.”
Takin’ one last hit, I used my long acrylic fingertips to pass it to her with another eye roll.
“Holdin’ out on me?” She laughed, before she took a deep pull.
Oh, yeah, Diane smoked weed. Shee-it. She got f’ed up on the regular. As long as I could remember, Diane got high. First it was rolling with E-Z Wide papers and then Philly Blunts. Hell, I even saw her and her friends smoke it out a bong. A spliff and Smirnoff Ice and she was straight as hell for the day. Mess around and she ain’t got either and she moody as hell. For real.
I’m the same way. I don’t find a damn thing funny when I ain’t high. I guess the limb don’t fall too far from the tree.
I started stealin’ her roaches—that’s the butt of the joint or blunt—from the ashtray at eleven. My grown ass was curious as hell about the little cigarettes Diane always smokin’. My first hit and I was hooked. I got f’ed up before school, during school, and after school. Gettin’ high was my homework, and I got straight A’s. When I went to high school, I started buyin’ my own stash, and I introduced my friends to the wonderful world of weed.
I was seventeen the first time Diane caught me smokin’. She told me I was almost grown and pass the blunt. I swear.
Diane started coughin’, and I cut my eyes over to her as I climbed out of bed in nothin’ but a thong. “You know your ass can’t hang. I don’t why you try.”
With her eyes all red and watery, Diane passed me the blunt. Wasn’t shit left but the end. What the hell she think I want with it? I know some older cats who eat the ends, but it ain’t even that serious. Y’all feelin’ me?
I just dropped it in the ashtray on the floor by my bed. It was already full up with dull ashes, cigarette butts, hardened wads of gum, and an ass of blunt ends.
“Give me a hundred dollars,” Diane demanded, finally gettin’ her shit under control as she stretched her hand out like I’m a ATM.
“For what?” I bent over to dig in a big black garbage bag of dirty clothes.
“The rent is due, that’s what,” Diane snapped, pickin’ up a black Via Nicci sheer camisole that still had the tag on it. “This will look good with my new low-rider jeans.”
She was always wearin’ my stuff. We the same size on top, even though her hips and butt was way bigger than mine.
Reaching over, I snatched it away from her. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. And the rent’s only fifty.”
“Well, it’s two months behind.”
Did I mention that Diane ain’t had a job since I was ’bout two?
When I turned eighteen, the government stopped payin’ her bills. She turned to her men, and me, to pick up the slack.
Now see, I knew she had money, but she didn’t wanna spend her own cash. Diane kept money ’cause she kept a man who kept money. Point blank. She was singing “No Romance Without Finance” long before the song ever hit the airwaves.
And she taught me well. Ever since I was old enough to remember, she been schoolin’ me on men, money, men and their money, and why the two should always go hand in hand.
Yeah, Cristal’s uppity butt always talkin’ smack ’cause we live in the projects.
It’s by choice.
Why pay eight hundred dollars or more a month for a one-bedroom apartment when we livin’ just fine in our two-bedroom for fifty dollars a month. Oh, section eight is a son of a bitch. A damn good son of a bitch.
Our apartment was decked out. The whole livin’ room was black and silver with one of those nice-ass leather sectionals, a sixty-inch big screen TV, and a glass entertainment center with a matchin’ dining room set. Mirrored walls. Black carpet you
Diane closed the door and strutted her wide-hip self over to my bed like she some runway model. I sucked my teeth and rolled my eyes as she stuck out a hand with a “don’t even play with me” look.
“Puff puff give,” she said, imitating Smokey from the movie Friday . “Don’t fuck up the rotation, bitch.”
Takin’ one last hit, I used my long acrylic fingertips to pass it to her with another eye roll.
“Holdin’ out on me?” She laughed, before she took a deep pull.
Oh, yeah, Diane smoked weed. Shee-it. She got f’ed up on the regular. As long as I could remember, Diane got high. First it was rolling with E-Z Wide papers and then Philly Blunts. Hell, I even saw her and her friends smoke it out a bong. A spliff and Smirnoff Ice and she was straight as hell for the day. Mess around and she ain’t got either and she moody as hell. For real.
I’m the same way. I don’t find a damn thing funny when I ain’t high. I guess the limb don’t fall too far from the tree.
I started stealin’ her roaches—that’s the butt of the joint or blunt—from the ashtray at eleven. My grown ass was curious as hell about the little cigarettes Diane always smokin’. My first hit and I was hooked. I got f’ed up before school, during school, and after school. Gettin’ high was my homework, and I got straight A’s. When I went to high school, I started buyin’ my own stash, and I introduced my friends to the wonderful world of weed.
I was seventeen the first time Diane caught me smokin’. She told me I was almost grown and pass the blunt. I swear.
Diane started coughin’, and I cut my eyes over to her as I climbed out of bed in nothin’ but a thong. “You know your ass can’t hang. I don’t why you try.”
With her eyes all red and watery, Diane passed me the blunt. Wasn’t shit left but the end. What the hell she think I want with it? I know some older cats who eat the ends, but it ain’t even that serious. Y’all feelin’ me?
I just dropped it in the ashtray on the floor by my bed. It was already full up with dull ashes, cigarette butts, hardened wads of gum, and an ass of blunt ends.
“Give me a hundred dollars,” Diane demanded, finally gettin’ her shit under control as she stretched her hand out like I’m a ATM.
“For what?” I bent over to dig in a big black garbage bag of dirty clothes.
“The rent is due, that’s what,” Diane snapped, pickin’ up a black Via Nicci sheer camisole that still had the tag on it. “This will look good with my new low-rider jeans.”
She was always wearin’ my stuff. We the same size on top, even though her hips and butt was way bigger than mine.
Reaching over, I snatched it away from her. “Oh, no. I don’t think so. And the rent’s only fifty.”
“Well, it’s two months behind.”
Did I mention that Diane ain’t had a job since I was ’bout two?
When I turned eighteen, the government stopped payin’ her bills. She turned to her men, and me, to pick up the slack.
Now see, I knew she had money, but she didn’t wanna spend her own cash. Diane kept money ’cause she kept a man who kept money. Point blank. She was singing “No Romance Without Finance” long before the song ever hit the airwaves.
And she taught me well. Ever since I was old enough to remember, she been schoolin’ me on men, money, men and their money, and why the two should always go hand in hand.
Yeah, Cristal’s uppity butt always talkin’ smack ’cause we live in the projects.
It’s by choice.
Why pay eight hundred dollars or more a month for a one-bedroom apartment when we livin’ just fine in our two-bedroom for fifty dollars a month. Oh, section eight is a son of a bitch. A damn good son of a bitch.
Our apartment was decked out. The whole livin’ room was black and silver with one of those nice-ass leather sectionals, a sixty-inch big screen TV, and a glass entertainment center with a matchin’ dining room set. Mirrored walls. Black carpet you
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