Uh, yeah, a bitch was born poor. Yeah, my moms was clockin’ welfare, and? Her ass still worked, though. And she gave me what she thought I needed, which—outside of food and a roof over my head—was close to nothin’. Fuck what I wanted. No, she wasn’t on crack or dope or a fuckin’ drunk. Maybe she shoulda been. But I can’t give ya no fucked-up tales of watchin’ her smoke up, shoot up, or snort up. And I can’t tell ya jack ’bout no tricks or johns runnin’ up in her pussy all hours of the day and night. Sellin’ her ass wasn’t her thing. Yeah, she went through men like water, and moved one in after the other…okay, and? That’s her story, not mine. She did her thing, and I learned to do mine.

Yeah, I knew…uh, I mean, know, who the fuck my father was/is, so? It ain’t like the nigga ever did anything for me. Besides hustlin’ and robbin’ niggas, the only good thing he ever did was donate his nut to my moms, a half-Spanish, half-black chick who spit me outta her hairy pussy when she was sixteen. Other than that, goin’ in and out of prison and breakin’ my mom’s heart was the only thing his sorry ass was good for. Be clear. I ain’t hatin’ on dude. He was a street nigga who tried to get in where he fit in. From breakin’ into cars to burglaries to drug dealin’ to numerous parole violations to runnin’ with known felons to fuckin’ any unsuspectin’ trick willin’ to spread open her legs and her wallet, he was a rebel, down for whateva.

The hood raised him. Bitches praised him. And the streets and pussy were what turned their backs on him when his black ass got popped fifteen years ago.