why all the hating, you ask? possibilities: mama's practicing. mama's on steroids. mama can't spell anymore & it's pissing her off. mama's sick of cliques. mama's sick of mens. mama's sick & twisted. mama's hungry. mama's horny. mama's bored. those kids are on mama's lawn again. mama's bike got stolen. mama got a cat. mama got a fuckweasel. mama's a honeybadger. mama's eating larvae. mama's been reading Notes from the Underground again...
underground man is a hardcore hater.
mama's fave part in Notes is when our lovely narrator gets krunked up and marchy-marches around. check this shit out cos underground man don't care; underground man don't give a shit:
They was all hangin round the big pimping baller, Zverkov, cos Zverkov done bought the Courvoisier. Three bottles for reals. Zverkov was all rah-rah while he poured one for his homies & tot dissed me. I mean, bougie buster didn't ask me to partake, of course. The marks sat round him and ate his floss up. "Word? Word?" I wondered. They conversated about the East Coast, the honies and the shorties, a straight-up hustler called Podkharzhevsky and fronted like they knew hims, of how the Princess D was butta & how they was all tights with her, too, then they started on how Tupac ain't dead...I started to wig cos I was buzzing & on my way to getting krunked. I was on my grind to get their attention but the busters didn't pay me no mind. They wanted me to bounce so I kept marching back and forths. "Peace out, busters. I march for myself, yo." I was tripping from the turning; sometimes I thought I was straight up bugging. I felt throwed, for reals. I was stabbed to the heart by the thought that ten years, twenty years, forty years later would pass, and that forty years later I would remember how that night I played myself.
mama's starting the writings of her new novel. mama's new novel's about hate and death; just like Homegirl! was about love & sex.