Conicidence?

I think not...

Bounce From tha Club, to My Car, to My Crib We Go

I’m officially a pimp. Not that I wasn’t pimpish to begin with, but like, I’m a complete pimp now because I got my own place. That’s right, babies, I have my very own crib. It’s totally rockin’ and I’m wicked excited about it. It’s an old building, so no, I do not have central air or an effing dishwasher, but I do have mad game now.

I’m so liberated! No more late night calls, “Um, no, Mom. I’m staying at, uh…Cecilee’s tonight. Yeaaaaah, she’ll loan me some work clothes.” Which would be hilarious if she did because I “wore” a pair of her jeans once and lost all circulation in my lower body. I now have Chronic Tingly Pins-and-Needles Leg Syndrome, which is second only to the Perma-Camel Toe I now have from squeezing myself like a bloated sausage into Elli's tiny jammie pants one time.

Anywho, so I can totally have shackers, which I’m double excited about. I even chose a bed that has a huge iron headboard that's perfect for handcuffing bitches when they sass me. I was originally thinking about getting a sleigh bed, but my sister gave me a what-the-fuck look and said, “Baby, nobody ever gets tied up in a sleigh bed.” Amen.

But what freaks me out the most is how much it costs to fill an apartment. I had a whole lot of nothing, too, so it has exhausted my bank account and patience just to get a god damn kitchen together. And I don’t even cook! Well, except for cereal. I make a mean bowl of Cocoa Krispies. Word to The Krispy, bitches.

So I’ll have y’all over at some point so you can stalk me and see my phat pad. I just need to get a couch so your ass will have a place to sit first...