… that cats who grew up in the ghetto always have to remind you that they grew up in the ghetto?
It doesn’t matter how many years have gone by, or what they do professionally. Soon as something comes up that they don’t like, it’s always off some
"You don’t know me! I came up in the streets!"
… So we’re just supposed to assume that means, what? That you can fight? That you used to run with a crew or some shit? That you’re into some gully shit?
How do we know you weren’t the nigga in the streets getting his teeth kicked in every other day, b? All I know, you coulda been the young shorty getting jacked for his baseball cards and bubblegum, fam. Probably got a pair of your shoes hanging from a power line somewhere, too.
It’s official. My thing is legs. Skinny or thick. Short or long. It matters not. If she has nice legs, my brain goes on standby for awhile. And I think it wasn’t so bad before. But now they rockin leggings man. Fucking leggings. Form-fitting ass leggings. And it kills me.