The most exclusive
Damn, Cam'Ron, came to the D-dot and got all shot up. Really sorry to hear Chocolate City did you that way. I hope this incident doesn't grow into some larger beef between NYC and DC. Like Tucker said, "Letitgo, letitgo, LET IT GO. It's not worth it."
And too bad HU's homecoming was scarred by the incident. I'm sure folks preferred the taste of the chrissy chrissy instead of the smell of gun residue lingering in their mouths and noses. I'ma stay tuned to what happens next (if anything).
I passed up the lines and club fees at H20, Republic, Pearl, Love, CVS and everywhere else for a more exclusive venue: my girl J's apartment.
J. and I are road-dawgs. We've taught together, allowed each other space on a sale rack at H & M, rolled from under bar stools and limped off dance floors from the backside, sore as hell. But I'd never been to her place, the Makeup Factory, the Bat cave, the Bitty-Crib.
See, there's J., "throw a pashima and grab my LV clutch, I'll meet you in 15 mins.," and then there's Bitty, "Naw, n*gga, it's windy outside. I got some smut to read." (Bitty does not do elements other than a light breeze. Bitty also has a tendency to get in bed before 9 on any night of the week, ass-shakin' be damned).
And when she's holed up, she's holed up solo. Two people outside of family have gone up the elevator. Anyone who tried, she stabbed with a stilletto and that was that.
Friday night, though, something bout the rain, and a bottle of pasta sauce got to her. By seven, we're sitting in front of a "My Wife and Kids" rerun dishing up Uma Thurman's love life. Dancefloor-J gone, Bitty in full effect. My girl fixed up a full dinner, complete with wine and peach cobbler. Damn, that peach cobbler.
Well worth the wait, and definitely better than a night at the club.
And too bad HU's homecoming was scarred by the incident. I'm sure folks preferred the taste of the chrissy chrissy instead of the smell of gun residue lingering in their mouths and noses. I'ma stay tuned to what happens next (if anything).
I passed up the lines and club fees at H20, Republic, Pearl, Love, CVS and everywhere else for a more exclusive venue: my girl J's apartment.
J. and I are road-dawgs. We've taught together, allowed each other space on a sale rack at H & M, rolled from under bar stools and limped off dance floors from the backside, sore as hell. But I'd never been to her place, the Makeup Factory, the Bat cave, the Bitty-Crib.
See, there's J., "throw a pashima and grab my LV clutch, I'll meet you in 15 mins.," and then there's Bitty, "Naw, n*gga, it's windy outside. I got some smut to read." (Bitty does not do elements other than a light breeze. Bitty also has a tendency to get in bed before 9 on any night of the week, ass-shakin' be damned).
And when she's holed up, she's holed up solo. Two people outside of family have gone up the elevator. Anyone who tried, she stabbed with a stilletto and that was that.
Friday night, though, something bout the rain, and a bottle of pasta sauce got to her. By seven, we're sitting in front of a "My Wife and Kids" rerun dishing up Uma Thurman's love life. Dancefloor-J gone, Bitty in full effect. My girl fixed up a full dinner, complete with wine and peach cobbler. Damn, that peach cobbler.
Well worth the wait, and definitely better than a night at the club.
posted by Rhonda Henderson at 12:13 PM
1 Comments:
I love it. You finally blogged me it's about time n***a. Oh my!We have to blog the costume party. Yay, I'm major now. I made Rabooty's blog.
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