Morning Confessions

The Imperial Kingdom Hereby Wishes Court Member Brotha GC a Blessed Birthday. In honor of GC, he has requested that we all spoil ourselves. Thus is the mandate for this morning. Now onto the regularly scheduled post. Morning Confessions Man, that is the tightest Gil Scott Heron song in the world. I love that song so much, I can’t wait to have a house so I can get up on Saturday and play it loud as hell while I open all the shades, and vacuum my carpet. Anyways, I do have a confession to make. This confession has been brought to you by the Hot 92 Jams slow jam show (at night). That Lionel Ritchie song “Hello” petrified me when I was little. I hated the video, I hated the song. It sounded so desperate and scary to me when I was like 7. Even now, that song invokes slight twinges of fear in my heart. Not to mention that ugly ass statue that blind chick made of him scared the crap outta me back then too. Confession #2: When Stalkalistic Playas Go Wrong Now as a rule, I’m not supposed to talk to the SP’s. But this one called me last night, all sad, talking about he ain’t been right since we fell apart, and he needs some closure, blah. Lemme show you how it went down. *phone rings* Me: Hello? Him: Hey. Me: Whaddaya want? Him: I need some closure, Misty. You just put me on the shit list and I never got to talk, apologize, nothing. Me: SO? Him: Well it’s affecting all the dates I go on. I’m so untrusting and I just think of you the whole time. Me: Again, I ask you: SO WHAT? You f’ed me over, remember? Am I supposed to care now? Him: Can I just see you tomorrow? I’ll be out of your life forever. Me: So you’ll never ever call me again? Or stalk past my house? Or follow me through the store? Or call my momma’s cell phone anymore? Because she hates you too. Him: I promise. Me: Ok. So today I have to meet with the unnamed SP. Hopefully this will work, because I don’t need to have this fool bothering me anymore. Edit: Confession 3#: I confess that I am on shaving strike until the Cramps cease. This means I'm looking rather... uh... let's say Mediterranean. If I find a man like this, I know that nigga loves me, LMAO. Side note: Oprah’s show is 25. So am I. That is ultra-scary. Well I gotta get back to work, and so do you. The Queen has mandated it, and you shall make it so.