I have lived in piles of shit and super crappy crack houses (literally) and in toxic wastoid dumps, but I was finally getting out, finally moving on up. A friend invited me to live in a place that was nice, a place with cable, a big TV, a human-size fridge, not a fridge for hobbits, and a REAL FREEZER. We had not one but two working toilets! I actually got to decide which toilet I could take a shit in. Or I could shit in one, piss in the other, and do it during commercial breaks of a Dog the Bounty Hunter Marathon. No more waking up and having to step over fugitives in the hallway sleeping on pillows of crack. No more having to hide my cash in my crotch at night and having Air Jordans as pillows. Things were going to be different here…
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I asked for the key back—I mean, it didn't work—and he said he wouldn't hand it over unless I reimbursed him for his investment. I told him I didn't have any cash in the house and he responded to that by telling me I looked I was high on heroin. I spent far too long trying to convince him that no, at that time I was in fact not high on heroin, and then I realized I was wasting my time talking to some low-life fuckface.Our little jovial conversation turned a bit violent so I decided to bid the gentleman goodnight and hope to god he wouldn't return to beat me over the head, come into the house and take all our stuff, and then cut off my boob and use it as a mantelpiece. After a little while I retired back into my palace and resumed watching the Dog and fantasized which toilet I would use to drown that little fucker Duwayne in a bowl full of shit. And it wouldn't be a big deal because there'd still be another working toilet. Life is good.LI'L PRINCESS
