A Love Tantrum In The Grocery Store Of Her

I stomp my feet, like a child mad he can't have candy because She still doesn't understand me. A book once told Her that I was from Mars, but I disagree because only my thoughts of Her are out of this world. And I don't speak alien, I speak manly. It's a soft and strong dialect with an emotional undertone. A language She still can't comprehend because She's only used to hearing all the BS and True Lies. I want more than behind, I want a mind with behind. I want weekends of sprung spoiling; filled with fruit feeding, face foundling with gentle fingers and sultry slow dancing to Love songs made in the early...late 90's. I'm an only child, not spoiled, but I do want what I want when I want it, but willing to earn it which defeats the stereotype. Is this too much to ask? Too much to ask would be me asking Her to Love me more than She Loves Herself, and I could never suggest that because then that would mean She'd suck at Loving me because She doesn't Love Herself enough. So can I get my treat now? Or what more must I do before I can enjoy that chewy feeling? That sugary rush that keeps my wheels turning with no plans on hitting breaks? I want Her, I want Her, I want Her.

Who's Really Wearing The Pants?

Does a man who pays all the bills around his house really sleep on the couch when his wife or girlfriend tells him to?

United States of Ho-Wood...The real True BullShit

Man of the hour with a pocket full of power, but the hero is weak and usually subject to defeat when trying to fight the world without a Super Woman, so he shakes the city down, like a bank heist. Record release and fashion week mixing is the party. Allergic to ropes and being told no, the only man whose palms he'll ever grease is the man whose shoes in which he stands. V.V.I.P is where the seat be. Crushed grapes coat the throat, like Cold-EEZE. Surrounded by shallow fame and dames who Google names on bedazzled blackberry's; texting and AIMing, making the room look like a sea of lighters at a MJ concert with all the bright back lights. Chixs thirsty for alcohol smack their gums, signaling that they want drinks, like hungry babies, whenever thirsty tricks walk by waving dollars, like bait.


Playing the game is just that, "Playing the Game." Now you can play the game and still not like how it's played which is why the chatter of hypocrite complaining bangs around like an 8 0 8. But either way, you play it hard or sit on that bench alone, like a kicker who misses a 5yard field goal. Drunk off depression, ain't no solution to drowning yourself in sorrow, so you gotta drag ego and pride off that sorry ass ground, into the shower of self purify and sober your soul up. Counselors can counsel, but it's your job to clean yourself up. You have the keys, so it's always your choice who gets to drive.

"Oh Jesus!!...Oops I Mean Weezy!!"

I remember reading an article once where Lauren London said she keeps her Bible on her at all times and takes it everywhere she goes. I wonder, did she have it with her when she slept with Lil Wayne? Or did she take a break away from Jesus to get freaky with Weezy? Or did she just say "Fuck it" literally, like Black porn stars who take off all their clothes, but leave on their blinged out cross,(shout out to Weezy for coining the phrase "Bling Bling", I mean you gotta give credit when credit is due) or the white gold Jesus piece that painfully hangs around their neck...oh and those infamous socks? Anyway I wonder, did she?