Arabian Nights II

Maybe I have nothing to write because I have nothing to say, which is an impossibility of course because I always have something to say, there are always thoughts to translate, always a message to convey.

So where the hell is it?

Okay so let me just type.

I've become overly health conscious, yesterday for example, my Mum got herself some KFC, I respectfully declined on the breaded chicken tip because 1. I can't stand the taste of chicken and 2. I'm a vegetarian, so I asked for fries. I couldn't even finish one, cause it tasted like chicken and an instant artery blocker. I couldn't eat it because it just tasted unhealthy, the problem has been progressing to a lot of things. Like white bread. I can't finish a piece of white bread knowing that these carbs aren't going to do shit for my body.

I like my body you know? I actually really do like my body. When I look in the mirror I enjoy what I see, yeah my tits are little, but hey at least I don't have stretch marks all over my chest and my ass is perfect. I have a great ass. And have curves, I have that little waist, big hips thing down pat, and I love my skin, what I'm trying to say is that I LOVE MYSELF.

So why shouldn't the food I ingest do the same? My mother calls me a food snob, it's really not that serious she says. But it is! It is! Because the food I eat today will reflect on me 20 years down the line, and I plan on having that eternal Stacy Dash badness, so I'll eat my 7 grain whole wheat bread spicy grilled tuna sandwich in joy knowing that this food invariably contributes to eternal beauty. I like taking care of myself, I like exercise, I love Yoga, I love meditating, all that herbal shit? I fucking adore it, I get so into it, because I want to have a long and healthy bad ass life. I want to still strike fear in niggas hearts (type Grace Jones) at 62, at 72, at 82, on my damn death bed, I want to be the baddest in that funeral home!

By God's Grace of course.

By my creator's benevolent mercy.

But all the while I'm saying this, my stomach is rumbling and I can't be bothered to get up and put food into it. I know, I know, fucked up priorities.

I just remembered a man telling me he couldn't function without me for more than two days, you looking pretty good now son, so where all those words at?

Niggas really just like to talk. Honestly, spark a little flame and they'll set the whole city on fire with it, leaving nothing but ashes in their wake.

I won't say that shit. Cause I know I'll be fine, why?

BEFORE SPOONS WE WERE EATING.

Damn straight.