Bitchfaces, how goes everything in y’all world? The rest of y’all? Dirty bitches in the back row?
Well, that’s fantastic. So glad y’all starting the week with a bang, as well.
For the last six or eight months, I’ve been having stuffed french toast at unholy hours with a gangster. Not that new-age think they’re gangster type of shit. Like, my father would have had something to talk about with him. My uncles too.
Given my history with dope boys, trappers, and assorted other men who make me feel safe, but aren’t necessarily good for me or my growth as a human, I swore off gangsters. I said they simply don’t bring enough to the table to make it worth all the shit you have to overlook with them.
Like, their giant wad of cash that you know they didn’t just pull out of the ATM. The fact that if you go anywhere with them, you can place your bet on a felony traffic stop happening. And there are some situations where a gangster just isn’t appropriate to have as your plus one.
I mean, not with me. I don’t give a fuck, it could be the awarding of the Nobel, I wouldn’t dream of taking anyone but a gangster. You could have a whole security team, they won’t keep an eye on you like one G who thinks he likes your company will.
That dude will mop up the floor with some psycho who fancies himself stalking you. And that’s how I like my psycho stalkers. As mops.
I digress.
So, I semi-regularly see The Gangster, and every time I do, I learn something new about what makes him tick. I usually try to refrain from telling him anything that makes me tick, because what’s the point?
Last night, though, I was showing him my column in Ellemeno, just the format and whatever, and he took my phone and read the column. And called me smart. And complimented my writing.
I think I blushed a little. It was nice of him to read the column, and then to only have positive things to say? Well. That’s the other thing about gangsters. They can sell water to a well when they put their mind to it. I would have bought the fucking H2O. And whatever else he was selling with it.
I sleep like a Van Winkle when I’m over there, because safe is an understatement. I mean, he has a hole from a .40 in his chest and is still standing, so I’m not worried about what might take place. Fairly certain he’s got it covered.
He does all the old school shit. I don’t worry about anything, don’t have to reach for my Kate Spade, hell, I don’t even have to pick up my phone while I’m there if I don’t want to. He takes care of everything. Doesn’t ask me for anything.
I’m telling y’all. This fucking guy. I know I really ought to leave it alone, but I don’t want to. But that’s the other thing about gangsters, the thing I learned from my daddy before I could walk.
Gangsters don’t stay. They’re either fresh out, headed back, or they’ve gone for good. You can’t really expect them to be there the next time you go looking for them, you just consider yourself fortunate when they are, and get some fucking french toast, and talk about random shit. Usually they’ll tell you a story you know they can’t tell anyone else, because none of it is legal.
We’re at the point where he tells me two or three stories, and he’s got some good ones. I haven’t told him any Trap Queen stories, because, again, what’s the point? He remembers what I eat, and always asks if I want juice, and sometimes, he catches me off guard with the guy living inside him.
I really, really like that guy. And we all know I love french toast. The rest of it, I fucking know better, but as usual, I’m here to push the fucking envelope.
Who would I be if I colored inside the lines? Not the Queen, that’s for damned sure.
Yep
Then I’d b having breakfast with him too