As my life is an open book, everyone gets to ride these nasty-ass moods out with me. You’re welcome.
It also means that no matter what’s on my mind, it’s going to reveal itself in what I’m writing. If I’m feeling any type of some type of way, y’all finna know about it. I don’t mind. Because, at the end of the day, I assure you I’ve got this thing in my grip.
I don’t care if I wake up at noon and the whole damned place is in shambles around me. Everything I have, gone, everyone I know, disloyal. Guess what? I’ve been in that spot before, and I came out of it then, too.
That’s what kills me about someone trying to stick their face off in my life and claim some sort of credit for something. I sure can remember taking that ride in the prison van alone. I remember all the times I needed someone to call, someone to go to for help when shit was bad.
I learned quickly how those calls “forget” to be returned, those texts go unanswered. I can literally count the people who came to my aid on one hand.
So for someone to stand up now and say I wouldn’t be this, that, or the third without them….psssssh. I need you to pull a number from the machine and have a seat with the ugly bitches in the back row. There isn’t a single Queenism that is owed to anyone. Every word from my mouth, mine. Every story I keyed, mine. Where in the fuck do you see a hint of you in that?
Exactly.
This is my show. I’m absolutely certain of one thing: if I tell a story about you, and you don’t see your name, it’s because you don’t deserve to be recognized. You must have been a terrible character, or I’d have thrown you a nod. And if you think you recognize yourself in one of my stories, let me assure you, punkin’, you ain’t the only Fuckboy to try to ruin my life.
There has been a handful before, and they all sound the same in story form. So, please, don’t fucking flatter yourself.
When I need to drop a name, I’ll do so. Until then, you can sit back and read my column, big mad because you want me to say something about you, but you’ve not done shit worthy of speaking of.
If that sounds super bitchy, that’s exactly how I intended it, sir. I don’t owe you shit. You can take your little iou, put it in an envelope addressed Queen of the Fuckboys, and drop it right the fuck off in the box. I’m sure it will give me quite a chuckle, just like your little fucking temper tantrum.
So, in closing, please feel free to go and fuck yourself. This is my show, my name, my words, and my life. I don’t owe you a fucking thing.
Next time, put a fucking date on it.
Yassssss Bitch
Better than therapy