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“And you didn’t haveta keep openin’ up ya ashy-ass legs lettin’ me. But ya did. So, whose fault is that?”
“Yours,” she states.
I shake my head, convinced this ho needs to invest in a bottle of self-esteem ’cause she’s all out. “Yo, you got issues for real, yo.”
Silence.
I get up from the counter, walk over to the pantry and pull out a tin canister. I open the lid, then pull out a large Ziploc bag of Purple Haze. I open the baggie, then smell. Yeah, this that good shit right here, I think, goin’ into the laundry room for my pack of Phillies.
I go back over to the counter, pullin’ open a drawer lookin’ for my razor. Where the fuck is that shit?
“How can you be so fucking mean and selfish?”
“Easy. Whatever heartache you feel, you brought on ya’self.”
“I…I can’t believe you…” Fuck what ya heard. I am not moved by all that cryin’ ’n shit. A nigga like me has no muthafuckin’ sympathy for a ho who can’t stick to the script. She starts wheezin’ ’n shit, like she’s havin’ an asthma attack. “I’m…so …fucking… sick…and…tired of…niggas…using me…and fucking me over…”
“Look,” I say, splittin’ the blunt down the middle wit’ my razor. “I’m sorry you feelin’ some kinda way, but”—I pack it wit’ weed, then roll it tight—“you got what you got ’cause that’s what you allowed.”
“You’re a fuckin’ liar!” she screams. I light the blunt, then take a deep, long pull.
I blow smoke outta the side of my mouth. “Yo, listen, the only muthafuckin’ liar is you.”
“I never fucking lied to you, you black motherfucker!”
I don’t know if the ho’s ever lied to me or not. And I don’t care if she ever did. But the one thing I do know is the bitch has been lyin’ to herself from gate. E’ery muthafuckin’ day this ho wakes up and looks in the muthafuckin’ mirror—tellin’ herself she’s gonna have me to herself, tellin’ herself she’s gonna keep fuckin’ ’n suckin’ this dick ’til she bags me—she’s straight lyin’. So I’m not the one the bitch shoulda been keepin’ shit real wit’. Her dumb ass shoulda been keepin’ it one hunnid wit’ herself ’cause if she had, we wouldn’t be havin’ this whack-ass conversation.
“You know what?” she snaps. “I don’t need you, and I definitely don’t need your no-good, lying ass to take care of my baby. I can do the shit on my own.”
I drop the blunt, pullin’ the cell from my ear, then starin’ at it. What the fuck did this ho just say? Baby? I return it to my ear. “Yo, run that shit by me again.”
“You heard me, nigga. I said, baby. I’m pregnant.”
Now I might be many things, but a sucka ain’t one of ’em. This ho is reachin’ for sure if she thinks I’ma let her pin that shit on me. “Okay, so you pregnant, and?”
“It’s yours.”
I bust out laughin’. “Yo, you funny as hell, word up. Nice try, baby, but you’se a real clown. Unless you can get pregnant from swallowin’ a nut, you had better go back to the lab and find the real donor, ’cause it ain’t me. And on that note, don’t call my muthafuckin’ phone wit’ no more of ya nutty-ass bullshit.”
I disconnect the call, then light another blunt. I inhale, hold the smoke in my lungs ’til it starts to burn, then blow it up into the air. “Bitch talkin’ ’bout she pregnant. Fuck outta here,” I say to myself,
shakin’ my head. “These thirsty-ass broads will do and say any-muthafuckin’-thing to get a muhfucka to stay wit’ ’em.” My cell rings, again. I look at the screen, then press IGNORE.
Twenty minutes later, my cell rings again. I grin. This time it’s Moms. “Hey, beautiful, what it do?”
“It calls its mother, that’s what the hell it do,” she says, pretendin’ to be annoyed. “But obviously, you done forgot who gave birth to it.”
I chuckle, blowin’ smoke outta my mouth. “You right, my bad. Didn’t I tell you I was gonna be outta town?”
“Yeah, you told me all that. I’m just tryna figure out why you didn’t return my call.”
“You called? When?”
“I don’t remember which day it was; maybe a week or so ago.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t remember seein’ a call from you. Did you leave a message?”
“No, fool,” she huffs, “I figured you’d see my number and have sense to call back.”
