Editor’s note: What follows is a short story I wrote years back. I was staying at my mother’s lake house while recovering from a broken neck. I was very high on morphine.
To be a ghetto black person. I would enjoy having no manners at all and talking to people any kind of way. If I can’t be a screenwriter it’s the next best thing. Better than being poor white trash that’s for sure. Plus if I ever have sex again I don’t have to worry about using a condom or hiding the fact I smoke rock cocaine. I mean honestly, who doesn’t want to call everyone around them a bitch and reply with “nigga please”when asked for a cigarette? Sometimes when my mother starts in on me about picking my clothes up I want nothing more than to backhand her ass and scream in her face, “Motha Fucka, I’ll kill you!!”
But I mean, that wouldn’t be smart. She pays the rent. Instead mostly I think about having a big huge black cock and whether or not I’d spray cologne on it.
