Friday, January 18, 2013

I abandoned my baby....

Caution: I'm about to post the obligatory "i'm back but not really, here's my explanation, what had happened was, new year new blogs, i'm gonna write everyday" post that everyone does after a long death hiatus.

Truth is- i don't have an explanation for you. Shit just is what it is. Instagram, Facebook Life happened and I enjoyed it without documenting but I just realized that I really miss blogging and interacting with strangers that    thinks somewhat highly of me.

I've done some blogworthy shit in the last year or so and i regret...ok, so enough of this shit. 

I'm gonna blog....

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Part 2: NABCAS Presents True Life: I Did Crack

Shortly after Kingsmomma leaves my hotel room I realize that I reeked of alcoholic and pants rubbing sin. I remember telling Rock that I was drunk and needed a shower. He agreed.

I ended up stripping and did the slow foot stumble into the glass shower almost hitting my face on the wall when I tripped over steam. This is when I realized I was super drunk and that Rose wasn't my friend but a pink enemy seeking vengeance on my body and soul. Not only did I choose to lounge in the shower like I was chillin on a sofa with my legs sprawled out but I also decided it was a perfect time to wash my hair.... with bar soap. That skinny ass leftover hotel soap. Sample soap.  Was there shampoo and conditioner provided by the four- star Hilton hotel? Well, yes but I like for my hair to be matted and tangled with flat bar soap when I'm drunk and fancy... and a drunk mind will have you washing your hair with anything that suds or inviting people back to your hotel room even when you have someone there waiting for you. As drunk as I was, I would've washed my hair with Tide or beer piss if it was available. You know what else a drunk mind will have you doing? Washing your ass and face with the same shampoo you failed to use on your head leaving your skin feeling like you just soaked in Epsom Salt and dawn dish detergent. Listen folks, when you're drunk everything that doesn't make sense makes perfect sense. Don't Drink and Drive, Shower, Fuck, Teach Children, Breathe, Live !

Feeling like I just ran through a car wash with toxic shit now seeping though my pores, I take my time getting out of the shower and stumble to the bed where Rock is laying. Now, these parts are a little foggy.

I remember climbing on top of him and telling him that I was drunk and wanted to vomit. That right there was that disgusting sexy talk that only a wife could say to her husband and still make him hard. So, right now I'm dizzy. Rock now has two heads and is starting to look like a Boondocks character. The room is spinning and I feel like I'm going to meet that 22.00 pasta I inhaled a few hours before. Theres music playing from my iPod "Love" playlist and a scene replaying  in my head:

Me: Yo, the last time I drank Rose I got soooooooo fuuuuuuuuucked up
Kingsmomma: Champagne doesnt really do that to me but I'll try it
Me: I'm serious dude. That shit will get you everytime
Kingsmomma:  Uhhh i doubt it

slow-fast forward both of us grinding on random 21 year olds, stumbling on the streets, hailing a cab and listening to Biggie in said cab with a Punjabi driver nodding his head.

I roll over on my side and Rock brings me a trash can. Even with his teenage voice and Connecticut accent that I always find so funny, he sounds comforting. I remember him telling me that I just needed to throw up and that i shouldn't be embarrassed about throwing up in front of him. I remember telling him that I'm not embarrassed I just cant throw up.After advising me to put my finger down my throat and me declining his offer to put something down my throat to throw up, he pulled my hair back, got back in the bed and we spooned while listening to music.

Somewhere between R. Kelly and 112, Souljah Boy comes on. Now, there are about 200 songs on that playlist. All of them are baby makers and here comes Souljah Boy's She Got A Donk out of the blue. Only during a time that two of the craziest bloggers end up in the same bed together would a random ass song magically appear on my playlist. Do I turn it off? Nope. What did I do? I did what every girl, your mother and grandmother included, does when that song comes on... I backed it up or did some drunk variation of backing it up. Yup, Ms. La'Docker did random booty popping Tip Drillish dance moves in the bed. As I'm writing this, I realize that I always pick the worst and most random times to booty pop which usually ends up in some embarrassing or blogworthy situation. File that one under Blogworthy.

"Donk" is where things got spicy and, unfortunately, I cant remember everything BUT I'll give you the following tidbits that I do remember and/or have text confirmation that it did happen.

Things that Khaki Vaguely Remembers About Doing Crack

  • Breaking my Pretty Woman rule and kissing Rock allllllll in the mouth. He liked it.
  • Both parties getting Facetime and even as a sloppy drunk I gave a pretty decent performance. No teeth or hands! BOOM!
  • Rock Somebody did some questionable and pause-worthy shit that they didn't even pause on before doing it while someone else didn't even fight it. As a part of our marital agreement, I can not disclose the act that was performed.
  • Rock has a mean stroke game and the perfect sized "junk". Mean as in pretty damn good and perfect sized as in it wasn't so big that I'd have to ball up and take the D like a champ or too small that I'd want to punch him in the neck and make him sleep in the hallway. If I was sober, I would've went to sleep with a Coke and a smile.
  • Nobody came... at least i don't think i did. I know he didn't... I think. Wait, he did... once per her his text but I don't know... FML.
  • I must've said "i gotta throw up" about 100 times and never actually threw up or attempted to. In fact, someone  kept stroking while I muttered my threats of puking.
  • Rock uses some "regla" ass condoms. Yep, he doesn't use any of those fancy wrapper condoms... unless he saves those for the Cholas and Rosie Perez look-alikes.
  • Changing positions often and feeling like Troy from Crooklyn when she had that dream about sniffing glue. I was floating through the air while the room moved around me. No bueno.
That pretty much sums up the non-experienced teenage like sex which ended with me having my head in a trash can after my final threat to puke. I still didn't puke and ended up going to sleep.

The morning after: Butt ass naked, I wake up and run to the bathroom where I kneel over the toilet and grab it like I'm about to make love to it for the last time. Rock walks over and tells me to throw up. Of course... I don't. I get back in the bed and he leaves to find me water and breakfast. After some time, the best husband in the world returns with a big ass waffle and a bottle of water which I'm sure cost him more than he should've paid.

We got dressed and checked out of the hotel before getting a cab. I gave him a hug and a kiss, got in my cab and 5 minutes later opened the cab door and threw up. It was THE best vomit ever. I felt like i had just gotten head by a human rattlesnake while gumdrops and raindrops fell on my head. Shit was superb.

On my bus ride home things started to get clearer and a feeling of failure came over me. I felt bad and not because I just had what felt like 18 gallons of "drank" trapped in my system but I felt like I didn't rep for all of the black girls that get traded for the Peeta Ricans and border jumpers. That night was for the Tamikas and ShaQuans that Kobe skeeted on before marrying Vanessa. This was for all of the black baby mamas of pro athletes with J-Lo lookalike wives. I started questioning the authenticity of my vagina and head game. Were the blogs I write about me being a sex goddess all bullshit? I admit I cant sext and I don't masturbate, but was I capable of bad sex? Would Rock think I was a bad "lay"? Did I care what he thought? Not really because he did questionable shit but it was the principle. I take pride in being able to make a mans eyes roll in the back of his head like he's Rick Ross on a plane. I enjoy popping my collar after a night of heavy breathing and leg spreading and I just didn't feel like I gave him the Khaki Experience. It was like he paid for a Michael Jackson concert and only got "the brothers" or he expected Cirque Du Soleil and got the Universoul Circus with Uncle Tyrone shucking and jiving with a Rottweiler dressed as a lion to Frankie Beverly and Maze's Before I Let Go. This was my "See what you missing fucking with them Ez's?" moment and I failed miserably.


STOP THE RECORD! What am I talking about? Rock did get the Khaki Experience-- sloppy toppy, drunk doggy style and all. I'm unpredictable... and memorable. Thats is THE Khaki Experience.  

So ladies and gents there you have it, my admission to doing Crack. It was the first and last time I will ever do a fellow blogger unless you're Nightfall, NC17 minus the girlfriend or Simone Dior minus the vagina.  I have no regrets and I would do it again but someone went back to Peetas.

Questions? Comments? Drop em down low.

OH... and YALL better stop rushing me to post  :-)
aaaaaaaaaand I hate blogger for being assholes and not posting all of my pics.

Monday, October 17, 2011

NABCAS Presents True Life: I Did Crack

Due to random and not-so-random people visiting my blog,  some details of this post was changed to protect the reputation of individuals mentioned.

It was a long (maybe) time ago and doing Crack was not planned. Everybody told me I should try it...and you know how peer pressure is. Never one to back down from pressure, i did it. I did CrackRock.

Right next to my love for Converses and those fat ass burritos from Chipotle there’s a really, really small almost doesn’t exist space that holds my love for blog hubby, Sir Rock-A-Lot. He’s the oodle to my noodle, the Section to my 8 and the apple to my bottom. He’s Rick James and Im Teena Marie. We’re like this :crosses fingers: Definition of Black Love.

So what happens when you put all of that Fire and Desire in a hotel room after a night of drinking and pants rubbing???  I can barely remember it so I’ll try my best to recapture the night I did Crack or as yall know him- Rock. Like every story that involves trollopfication and blog fornication, there will be 3 parts. My story (which is probably the most truthful that someone who was drunk and cant remember how i got home from the bus station can get), his story (the most accurate without the details that admits he did the unthinkable) and the story we don't want our family or children reading.
It was some months ago and I was visiting friends in… uhhhhh York, New so I figured it would be the perfect opportunity to meet up with my nappyheaded love for some marital bonding. I know you guys don’t care about what I did before Rock showed up to my room so I’ll skip the boring details of shopping and eating overpriced Olive Garden food.
Approximately 4 hours had went by when I got the phone call from the front desk telling me that there was a suspicious young black man with an incorrectly spelled white name attempting to pick up a key to my room. After confirming that Rock wasn’t a drug dealer or DVD bootlegger hustling the Kevin Hart movie, the concierge (that’s fancy talk for front desk. They don’t have those at the RedRoof Inn hoodrats. Step yo hotel game up!) gave him the key but not before collecting his information and alerting the security staff.
So Rock, the confident almost arrogant little troll that he is, opens the door and he walks in like he owns the place or helped pay for the room. My first thought when I saw him: Damn, I should’ve smashed when I saw him in Miami. Smelling like a newborn puppy, was the love of my bloglife with his fresh sharp cornered shape up, health insured smile ,shoulder length dreads, cargo shorts and a pair of 200.00 foamposites or “dopes” as well call them in B-more.
I think we hugged before he pulled out his gift to me. That’s right ladies! My husband knows how to treat a lady. From his hoebag, he pulls out a bottle of wine. Now, before you start Awwww’ing and patting him on his back let me point out that the bottle of wine was the size of a 20 ounce bottle of Pepsi. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve assumed that he got it out of the soda machine but, nonetheless, he bought me wine. Sample sized wine… but wine.
I clown his baby bottle of wine and we end up on the plush king sized bed. I'm wearing my hooker dress that barely passed the bend over test and he couldn’t keep his hands off my khakis. Let me say that the hubby has soft hands… like he either beats off a whole lot or has a thing for lotion… which could mean that he beats off a lot. Regardless, he’s got nice hands and lips (as KingsMomma pointed out later). Anyway, I remind him that I'm about to hit the club with KingsMomma and I’d see him later. I could tell he wanted me... even though Im black. You see- Rock only dates Ez-girls. Hernandez. Fernandez. Sanchez. You get the point. If they dont wear jeans with no back pockets and high heeled jordans, he aint checking for them. My man has got a thing for the Goya. I'm not proud of that but I accept him for who he is. Sellout... and all.
KingsMomma gets to my hotel, they both tell me my dress is short, I take a few pics and we roll out to the club. Two bottles of Rose, about 4 mixed drinks later and a dizzy cab ride later, KingsMomma and I stumble back to the 23rd floor of my hotel. It's probably about 2 or 3 Am and I walk in to the room and fall onto Rock – who is on the bed listening to my iPod. He’s washed that outdoor puppy smell off of him and is wearing a pair of pajama pants. Let me remind you all again that I’m SLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIZZZZZZZZZZARD. Im Charlie Sheen. Im Amy WINEhoused (RIP). Im Ned the Wino drunk. KingsMomma is sitting on the leather ottoman just as drunk.
I tell Rock I missed him and stumble to the bathroom. Peeing with the door open and thongs around my ankles, I hear Rock get out of the bed and walk over to the bathroom and KingsMomma says “let me see yo dick” or "pull out yo dick" or something like that.
Rock says something like “ya’ll are wasted/drunk/plastered/fucked up etc” and tells me that KingsMomma asked to see his dick. Too drunk but not drunk enough for a threesome with two nappyheaded bloggers, I think I told her she had to go. A part of me wanted  him to pull it out so I could see if he had reason to be COCKy but I also couldn’t let Kingsmomma see if I was about to get played or not. Know how embarassing that would be to brag to your friend that you were getting D'd down just to have them see that the dude was working with a Slim Jim?!!?  
Kingsmomma realizes she’s cock blocking and gets up from the ottoman and then before she can stand up straight, she falls. Hard. Rock helps her back up and she leaves to “go home”. Please note: She didn’t actually go home. She told me she was going home but I knew she wasn’t going home… She had the look in her eye. The look that makes babies and gets people herpes.

I think this post is long enough……….. Part 2 coming soon :)

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Funny How Times Flies When You're Doing...Nothing

I've been wanting to blog for a long time... I just haven't. I could say that I haven't had anything to say but that would be a lie. Honestly, I have a lot to say and so much has happened in my life that I wish I would've blogged about. My blog was an outlet for me to express my feelings, talk about the random shit that no one but you guys would want to read and just.... release the stress from everyday life. Because I haven't done that in like... uhhh months... or years..., I probably cried more than I have ever cried in my life. I pretty much mentally tormented myself because I haven't vented, bitched, addressed bullshit, joked, cracked on midgets or openly spoke my mind in so long.

Welp, now that the violins have stopped playing let me give an update.

Lets see- I've dated a player for about 7 months. Dated another one for like 3 months or something like that. Gotten rid of both of them. Got my lil feelings hurt. Got Charlie Sheen-Amy Winehouse- Lindsay Lohan drunk, consummated my marriage to a blogger :ahemcoughahem:  and grinded on him to She Got A Donk. Did some traveling. Partied... a lot. Drank a little. Reached my goal weight. Took a 9 week vacation from my job to have surgery which resulted in some smaller boobs and a tighter waistline. Made some friends. Lost some friends. Did hoodrat shit. Became addicted to Chinese Acupressure Massages. Shopped. Did more hoodrat shit. Shopped some more and that's the brief version.

As you can see, I have shit to talk about. As a matter of fact, I have so much to talk about that I don't even know where to start. Are people even still following this blog!!!?!? Hmmmm... Yeah, so... 

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

NABCAS Presents True Life: Life Without Shoe Strings

There isn't too much that I wouldn't share with you guys. Ive posted on my inability to sext, my summer romp with a married dude, each time I got caught not fucking and just about every entertaining, embarrassing or funny moment of my life (sorry, there aren't many).

Anyway, while I love being able to brag that I'm so open and honest with you all about my life experiences and teenage fuckery, i have to admit that Ive been keeping a secret about my past. Ready for it....


Yep, I jammed in jail. I swag surfed in the slammer. Poked (ahem) in the Pokie. 

Gimme my hood stripes right now. Didn't know I was a thug, did you? Huh? What? Nigga, I pops the trunk! I go hard in the mufuggin paint. Yaheardme?

Take a journey with me while I give you the juice on my brief stint in prison lockup.

It was a pretty warm Saturday evening in September 2009. After partying it up at a DC nightclub with a few friends, we decided to head back to the car parked on K street in Washington DC. Now, if you're from DC you know that K Street is where all of the trannies, fairies and other mythological gay creatures hang out to sell some Dick Head or Asshole (literally). Now, if you're not from DC and you know that there is an abundance of sex switchers walking around with sales tags on their private parts, then either you're (A) buying the DHA or (B) you're like me in a sense that you like to hang around trannies for entertainment and head giving advice. Please don't judge me; thank me for I pass along those tips to you. Now, there's probably a C but that's pretty much irrelevant since this story isn't about buying dick... or is it?

So, my friends and I walk back to the car and we spot the trannies. Total- there was about 10 of em. There was one with a fishnet one piece on, a ch(d)ick with some metallic pants and a bra top on and several others rocking shit from old Luke and MC Hammer videos. These (br)hoes were Too Legit to Quit. I  said to myself  "Self, i ain't got shit to do. Maybe we should kick it with the trannies tonight. This has to be fun". Mistake 1.

My friends and I agreed that we were bored and the sight of transgendered men with terrible lacefronts on the hoe stroll intrigued the hell out of us. While sipping my root beer, I notice that there seemed to be some sort of dick purchasing routine. "The Checkout".  Don't ask my why but I was highly entertained by the dickcheckout that went something like this:

All the trannies are standing on each side of the street in a circle of lust
Car pulls up and rolls down window
Trannies look at each other and whoever is up walks to vehicle
After some "business talk" tranny holds up a finger and hops in vehicle
I bust out laughing

That's pretty much how the next 20 minutes went. If you don't see the entertainment in that then.... kill yourself and start a new life with a good sense of humor because that shit is funny!

That scenario happened about 3 times before a bunch of drunk dudes and girls walked past the tranny circle of lust. I have no idea what was said to the trannies but I know

I remember the Tracy Morganish ch(d)ick started cussing and talking about stabbing folks up. I remember someone jumping on someone else. Vaguely remember a few "faggots" being said, then a couple hundred "bitch" words being said and then some other code words for dick, fuck, and kill. Next thing I know, someone screamed and i realized that this wasn't just a FagFight. Shit was going down and I was apart of it. Thrilling!

A few seconds later, I'm standing there damn near by myself still sipping my root beer and see a bunch of blue and red lights. I look for my friends. Gone! Bastards had bounced on me. Laughing at the fuckery, I hadn't even noticed that the police had me and the remaining trannies surrounded. It was too late- I'd been busted.

There were about 8 police officers and 2 of them were female. One of them comes to me and snatches my root beer out of my hand. Now, this is the part when I realized I'm not as hood as I'd like to believe. I always thought because I grew up in a "hood" that I was automatically privy to "hoodshit". Hoodcards were given to anyone in my zip code, no? I thought I could do "hoodshit" and make it believable. The problem with that was all of that shit I thought about being hood and getting locked up was inaccurate. I was actually the white chick that threatens the police on an episode of Cops. Yeah,  so, I watch too much t.v

"Fuck you do that for? I was drinking that!" (Mistake 2), I politely ignorantly asked the policewoman who was now holding my root beer.
"Put your hands in front of you!", the other officer demanded.
"For what? Shit, i wasn't doing anything but walking to my car from the club. I'm not doing shit til you tell me..." (Mistake 3)
The policewoman with the old school Halle Berry/Different World Kimberly Reese mushroom haircut yells "Shut the fuck up and hold your hands in front of you!" The bitch then pours out my drink.... in slow motion. I felt like she was saying "Fuck yo drank bitch!"

So, you know ya girl went hard, right? Wasn't nooooooo bitch going to punk me! I studied law. I know my rights. Shit, I watch First 48 and Law &Order  FUCK THE POLICE!!!!

Reality: Sooooo I shat the fuck up while they tossed my ass in a paddywagon with a bunch of hoodrats and  sweaty trannies covered in glitter and a mixture of baby phat perfume and KY Jelly. As the paddywagon pulled away, a slow tear ran down my cheek. Frustrated that I couldnt even wipe it without using both hands, I cried even harder. I thought to myself:  "This must be what a 6 pack of soda cans feel like.". Confined with plastic hand cuffs, I sat there shocked while the trannies and random folk laughed at me for my blatant display of bitchassness.  

After what seemed like a 3 hour trip,we pull up to the police station. I'm taken out of the paddywagon and into the processing area of the jail. I'm being told that I was brought in for questioning on an attempted murder and possible charges for resisting arrest. Possible charges for resisting arrest?!?!? Did I resist arrest? No. Kinda. Possibly. Maybe. I probably did.

Now, I hear murder and I start asking for my phone call, a lawyer, my pastor, the NAACP, my grandmother, my next door neighbor, my address for letters, my commissary number, my greendot card etc. I was giving them my best jail talk.  

They take off the plastic "cuffs", ask me for my ID, take my shoe strings from my mid thigh high boots and sit my ass in a holding cell with the rest of DC's Friday night scum.

As soon as I walked in with my arms together I was greeted with a smell of death. I'll always remember the strong odor-  It was a potion of "What the Fuck?".

Recipe for "What the Fuck?": Mix a little crackhead with a teaspoon of homeless, add a pinch of 4 week old vagina, sprinkle in a little morning breath, add a 1/2 cup of asshole, 4 ounces of garbage juice, a tablespoon of piss, 3 cups of diarrhea, bake it for 30 mins at 350 degrees and, Voila, you have the scent of my holding cell.

There were hookers, crackheads, drunk bitches... basically a plethora of all the shit A&E makes reality shows out of. I felt like i was on an episode of LockUp or Scared Straight. Why? Well, because I was locked up and scared straight. As I always do when shit gets too real for me, I started humming spirituals. Sung a little "Silver and Gold" and then i figured it was a good time to hit up my old friend. So, I called God collect and told him I was going to change. I promised to pay all my debt and do a bunch of shit that I knew I wasn't going to do. Look, whatever I had to say to not become Dykisha's bitch was being said. God knows I sometimes lie to get out of shit. He knows his child- well.

Hours 30 minutes or so go by and I ask an officer when I'm going to be questioned and when I can go home. She laughs at me and tells me to "Chill out. Your time is coming up".

"Well, whats my bail?"
"You don't have a bail and you aren't being charged with anything".
"Oh, well, can I call my mother?"
"Is this a black thing?"
"Well, yes, it is.", she laughs as she walks away.

Feeling bitched again, I go back to my corner and cry. Not just the silent thug tears. The Smokey on Friday cry. The snot running down my face and my lip catching it cry.

Of course, someone had to sit next to me to school me on the ins and out.... so after a 2 hour 10 minute conversation with a religious junkie about the bible and the power of pussy, the officer came and escorted me to a room that Ive seen on every cop show: The Questioning Room.

"Hi Miss La'Docker. Do you know why you're here?", the officer asked.
"No. They said something about attempted murder.", I mumbled as I felt that brick in my throat alerting me that i was about to start crying like a bitch again.
"Oh, ok. Well do you know what happened tonight?"
"No. I was just hanging with the trannies to ask questions about fellating and then that lady locked me up."
Officer Douchebag laughs and tells me he'll be right back as someone knocks on the door.

A whole hour 5 minutes go by and he says the words I've been waiting for all night: "Let's go get your stuff so that you can leave". Im convinced that they were fucking with me the whole night. Sick bastards.

Boots flopping, I damn near ran to officer and jumped in his arms. We walk to the processing clerk to get my belongings and the lady hands me a plastic bag with all of my shit minus..... my fucking boot strings.

Irritated, I yell "Yo, where the fuck are my shoe strings?". (almost mistake 4)

She tells me she doesn't know and something about shift changes.

"Man, how am I supposed to walk with my boots flopping like this?", I ask.
The officer goes over to the clerk and says something to her and she walked to the back office.
Standing there with the "bitch, he told you" face, I see the clerk come back with something in her hands.
Shoe strings. White shoe strings. White Air Force 1ish shoe strings. I look at my black leather mid thigh -high boots, then look back at the shoe strings, then back to my boot. One of these things is not like the other...

Ohhhhhhhhh heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllllllllll tooooooooooooooo ttttttttttttthhhheeeeeee NAWL

Reality: So, I took the shoe strings and laced the first 5 holes up and walked outside to where my friends were sitting in the car waiting for me.

I give myself the "bitch, act tough" speech and get into the car. I slam the door and throw a mean mug. You know... one of those looks like you just did some shit that would earn your respect. Yeah, that look.

Friend #1: Yo, where the fuck are your shoe strings?
Me: Bitch wanted the business so I choked her ass out with my shoe strings and they gave me these. Real bitches do real shit, ya feel me?!?!?

Reality: I cried all the way home and tossed my useless boots in the trash.
I kept the shoe strings tho. Lesson learned...
Oh yeah i had pics but Blogger on that bullshit.

Friday, January 28, 2011

So A Girl Named Khaki Went Away for a Little While And.....

I'm sure that those who care have probably noticed that I took a short break from blogging. Ok, so "break" is probably an understatement. Ya girl went on a full blown vacation to bumfucknowhereaintbeingdoingshit, USA. I wish I could give you some incredible reason why i havent blessed you with my wit, sass, charm, humor (ahem: get to the point Khak). So, yeah, i dont have a reason... Sorry- please accept these pancakes... 

Dont look like that! You like pancakes!

Anyway, all that matters is that I've had time to think about some shit and Im going to start writing again. I missed you guys and I know Ive got some reading up to do. Soooooooo, yeah, this is all I've got. No sob story. No long blog. No real "update".

What have yall been doing?

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Want a good laugh... and to see someone call me a hoe?

Check out one of my favorite bloggers (waves to NC17) post on women that sleep with their ex while their with someone else. His post is hilarious but the comments are even funnier. Someone called me a hoe... then someone used the word whoremonger and... its just what i needed to get through my day and get my blog posts up again.

and BOO to "whoever" is coming from Black Girls are Easy checking out old ass posts about Groupies and whatnot. Folks tryna stab me with my own knife :)   Shout out to Blogger Stats

Til we meet again...

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