Can someone explain to me why outside my room in the fake ass courtyard that has become the hangout spot for thugs-r-us, there is some wannabe rapper singing/rapping in between him coughing up his lung due to his case of swine flu. No really? When did the memo go out that outside my room they're doing auditions for "America's worst rappers"?
Where is that clown that would come out on Apollo's Amateur night to take the bad contestants off after the audience has booed them? Where is he so can I escort Swine Fluzie off his so-called stage. I'm sorry, did I just hear him heave like a bulimic chic after lunch? And what's worst about it is that I'm afraid to look. I don't even want to see what he looks like or give him the satisfaction to think he has an audience. I'm sure you're wondering why don't I just close my window because if I do all the air will be sucked out of my room and I'll be trapped in heat. I'm talking Africa, walking across the Sahara desert heat. No, thank you. And I know I'm bitching and moaning on my Mac laptop while kids all around the world are dying for some food or water but just let me continue drinking my bitter juice okay (granted, I do have a lifetime supply but I promise you, I'm trying to cut back).
It's bad enough I'm stuck in my parents apartment still when I all want to do is click my ruby red slippers (in my version they're either slammin Christain Loubtin or Chuck T's) and go home - my home - not my parents, MINE. Whether that's in NYC or Cali it doesn't matter to me. All I know is that I'm tired of this. I'm tired of feeling like I'm waiting for my growth spurt to happen. I'm tired of everyone saying give it time, it'll happen. Well, you know what that line isn't working on me anymore, so go back home, grab a pen and some paper and do a re-write and then come back to me.
It's like I'm trapped in a Catch 22. I refuse to stay home with my sick father and limpy mother and if I go outside I risk the chance of getting infected and hollered at by Swine Fluzie (or the many other outbreaks that roam NYC) whom as we speak is still going at it - heaving parts of his lung on the cement and singing/rapping.
Ashton, wherever you are, you can come out now. I won't be mad really.
I want to know how much longer I have to put up with this shit in the City.
