Plant the Life Of My Story App into Facebook to grow this seed into a weed
= Seeking refuge in Ted Danson’s basement =
My sister’s hair is wet at breakfast. “Don’t go outside like that,” says my grandfather, “It’s damp nasty out.” What a perfect name for a female rapper. I imagine her as the Ol’ Dirty Bastard of Skeezers.
I’m in line at Marshalls when the woman next to me leaves her elderly mother with the cashier. “Don’t worry,” says the cashier, “I’ll babysit!” I imagined myself in her chair. Every wrinkle earned with age. And now she has to put up with this shit.
I’m sitting shotgun as we drive through South Philadelphia. Half my body is hanging out the window because I’m looking at the buildings. A group of young black women wearing backpacks walk by. We meet eyes so I wave. “Who you waving at? Get your body back in the car Predaphile.” First time hearing that word; I should’ve paid attention in class.