“What’s really good son?”
“Nothing, chillin’ yo, kissing the stars taking this shit to the face. What’s really good with you yo?”
“Nah, you know it ain’t really nothing, blowing it down wit wifey on this side. You know how we do son … zone coasting”
“Word, I hear you my nigga, what happened last night mad niggaz thought you was coming through”
“I know yo, but wifey made this bangin’ dinner last night and that shit was mad healthy. A nigga get that belly full and wanna have that good night L”
“Word, but what kinda shit she made yo?”
“She made these pork chops but she didn’t fry them shits yo, she like made them shits on the stove and then she made like this zucchini shit yo … boom and that shit was like mad healthy yo ... hold up ... what babe? It was eggplant? Well, whatever yo! That shit was mad healthy yo yanahmean?”
My parents ran a residential rehabilitation center. The basement of the first house on Thirty-five Chestnut Street was home for me as a newborn. When I was a kid my life seemed to have no adventure and felt completely void of characters. It wasn't as vivid as tales spun by addicts in search of recovery and a personal Jesus. Back then I didn't see contradictions and complications as a process of human maturity. Time taught me that Life is tragic, hope filled, explicit, and blessed ...
lol. hilarious
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