a vent. yes, another one.

fuck off, i don't have to consider anyone but myself (and by extension my landlord, the ppl who guarantee that i get paid, the utility companies, and on occasion my mother) in everything i do

stop asking me the same question repeatedly. it makes you look stupid and makes me see red. your ineptitude astounds me.

just because i said i'm not fucking anyone as of late doesn't mean i'm gonna jump on the first thing moving. that's lame. it's called a desperation fuck, or on that receiving person's end, a pity fuck. that's not okay. i'm better than anyone's pity.

stop that shit. now. leave it alone already. the dead horse can be pummeled but so much more.

it's really not okay to keep asking me about poetry readings. i fuck with sunni patterson and nobody else. dig? chances are she isn't what you want. love jones is a nearly fifteen-year-old film. quit already. shit.

i don't like sitting in a hot ass seat on the train. the only thing i dislike more: having a hotass person sit practically on top of me when they take the seat next to mine on the train. ew. i become slightly homicidal.

your man is ugly. that's why i'm staring.