I Am Growing Significantly Weary Of These Bitches
Word up, my internet compatriots. The last time we were together, I recall discussing my affinity for my street life of pedaling dangerous narcotics to various people -- a life I enjoy even despite the many injuries and threat of injuries it brings me. But there is one aspect of this lifestyle that I fear I may be growing permanently sick of, and that is all of these fucking bitches getting all up in my shit.
I realize that the woman is an eternal enigma, a mystery to the most romantic and poetic man, even including such legends as Wordsworth and Run DMC. I do not expect to understand their puzzling, and dare I say, even maddening ways as they go about their business of squeezing themselves into clothing made out of an inch of fabric and purchasing some of my less-sophisticated crack. No, my folly was not in believing I could understand the hos, dear readers, but rather thinking that I could live with their baffling behaviours.
For instance, one of the last straws that led to this epiphany of sorts occurred last Saturday, when Jizella-Ann, a lady I had been seeing on a semi-serious basis, primarily for drug use followed by sexual intercourse, arrived at the doorstep of my humble abode at the not-so-lovely hour of three in the morn.
"Why, Jizella," I said, quite perplexed. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness of dropping by for a hello, but surely you are aware that I have important wares to peddle in no less than an hour, and I was just in the midst of a lovely dream, in which I was a collector of fine glass eggs!"
"Don't give me none of that shit, 51 Cent!" Jizella advised me in a tone that, in my opinion, was hardly warranted. "You done promised me crack 'fore you left from fuckin' me today, and you ain't left none for me on the damn dresser!"
It was indeed true that in the heat of the moment before we lapsed into drug-induced sloppy intercourse, I had indicated to Jizella that I would perhaps leave her a small amount of a mid-grade crack sample upon my leaving. However, this would not have been a shrewd business move, and so I attempted to cover my tracks. "Jizella, you silly ho. Don't play these mind games with me, because I am Perciful -- erm, rather, 51 Cent. I'll cap you!"
Jizella then began shrieking at quite an unacceptable volume, so that I was forced to take her into my apartment and place her in my closet, where she currently resides. I am unsure at this point what to do with her; thus far, I have been slipping crack-cocaine and a carrot or two on a plate under the door to keep her occupied.
Another instance of these maddening feminine shenannigans occurred last week, when I was busy searching for Samuel Fuck, a customer of mine. I did not turn up Mr. Fuck in my searches, but rather Laura Dean, a lady I have had relations with in the past.
"What up, Laura," I said in an even tone, attempting to be civilized. "Perhaps I could interest you in some --"
"Whateva!" Laura shrieked at me, and to my utter astonishment began flailing her purse wildly at my face! "You ain't nothin' but a playa, you --"
"This is no time to call my ethics into question!" I shouted, and accidentally shoved Laura on the ground and stomped on her face with my new Timberland boots.
"Damnation!" I growled. "These boots are no longer pristine and unscathed! Look at your handywork, you foul she-devil!" Laura did not reply, but I knew she could hear me quite well, and I told her so as I strode angrily away. I never use my wares for my own personal reasons, but dear readers, that day, I was sorely tempted.
If there is anything these and similar instances has taught me, is that most -- if not all -- women are bitches, and are not to be trusted. I still maintain a dream of meeting a nice Victorian lady, or perhaps one with an extremely tight ass and a similar mouth, but until then, I officially declare my guard up for all future encounters with these fucking hos.
