Thug Love Quotes

We were a mob a gang ghetto a pack of wolves animals thugs hoodlums men They were kids having fun home loved supported protected full of potential boys

We ain't in the game to love these hoes, you suppose to hit it and pass it to the left. I didn't love that hoe, it was just something to do.

New York! The white prisons, the sidewalks swarming with maggots, the breadlines, the opium joints that are built like palaces, the kikes that are there, the lepers, the thugs, and above all, the ennui, the monotony of faces, streets, legs, houses, skyscrapers, meals, posters, jobs, crimes, loves... A whole city erected over a hollow pit of nothingness. Meaningless. Absolute meaningless.

She would never tell him and was ashamed to admit it, even to herself, but she’d fallen in love with him the instant she’d seen him. She’d been taken at gunpoint to the alleyway outside a gallery showing her paintings and had seen a powerful man, not tall but immensely broad. He was facing three armed thugs and he hadn’t looked frightened at all. He’d looked dangerous. And she’d fallen.

I’ve always loved you.” A shudder worked through him, and he pulled her closer. “I’ve always wanted you. They don’t have a word for how much I need you. Everything good I am, everything good I’ve ever done…it’s all you. You make me a king. Without you, I’m just another psychotic thug.

What make Gatsby so damn great—like da book’s title indicatin’—is dat unlike da rest of deez shallow rich folk, Gatsby actually believe in somethin’: love, dawg. He build himself a new identity jus’ for Daisy. Errybody else straight-up empty inside.

the same reason you can’t turn a hoe into a housewife, is the same reason you can’t turn a thug into a husband. Hoes and thugs both love being out in the street. It’s just in their nature. It is just way too hard to get them to stay their asses at home and chill.

I cannot explain how it all happened, Father. I know only that now I want to be with her.

I am not a fool. I have just loved with an honest heart. Ask the moon and the night sky and these jungles, they will bear the testimony. But the world – that is a different matter.

He felt no shame in their love. It was great, honest and high. He had never in his life seen a woman like her. He admired her like he had no one before. If she were to go away, he would abandon everyone and everything that he ever cared for and follow her like a dog. He would lose his mind otherwise.

Stories had a way of doing that, in Grillo’s experience. It was his belief that nothing, but nothing, could stay secret, however powerful the forces with interests vested in silence. Conspirators might conspire and thugs attempt to gag but the truth, or an approximation of same, would show itself sooner or later, very often in the unlikeliest form. It was seldom hard facts that revealed the life behind the life. It was rumour, graffiti, strip cartoons and love songs.

What y'all ladies got to share? Hmmm, what you bitches got?" Aunt Georgia sighed and squinted at the boy. She said, "The Lord loves a cheerful giver, but I'm just not in the mood." The thug moved his hand from his crotch to his scalp, still scratching. "What in the hell's that supposed to mean?" Mrs. Cleveland raised and pumped her walking stick, which, it turned out, was a double-barreled shotgun. "It means take one more step," she said, "and I'll blast you to hell, you ignorant-ass bastard.

Fear is the primary tool of the mafiya. It's how they contain their vast criminal enterprise. For the mafiya, fear is the grease in the wheel. Fear is much stronger than love | Fear lasts much longer. Love fades and is replaced by hatred and contempt. Fear lingers and brings forth other emotions such as doubt. Fear encourages procrastination and cowardice. Besides, you always hurt the ones you love. Most are too afraid to hurt the ones they fear.

We were a mob a gang ghetto a pack of wolves animals thugs hoodlums men They were kids having fun home loved supported protected full of potential boys

I’m not saying I was done with Breesha but right now a nigga just needed some space.

Always remember, no matter what life throws at you, never forget your dreams because the day you stop dreaming, you've officially became the average mother fucker.

My thing is, why put on all that clothing when I was going to end up ripping that shit off anyways? I never bought my wife lingerie and shit.

At 18, Kendrick had the business mind and smarts of a 40-year-old man. He was logical, strong, and he showed respect when it was owed.

were a mob a gang ghetto a pack of wolves animals thugs hoodlums men They were kids having fun home loved supported protected full of potential boys

You could not love me for I am a man with a hideous face, but what baffles me is that you cared nought for the fact that my thoughts are not inelegant?

I felt bad that everyone thought she took the abortion pill herself.  A nigga didn’t feel that bad, because if she would have gotten it done, we wouldn’t have to resort to all of this.

Do you know I have lost my heart to you?” His voice rustled like starched silk when trampled upon. “I am losing my sleep as well. And when sleep does come, I dream only of you.” He murmured.

Funny how when I found out that I was pregnant, I didn’t want anything to do with this pregnancy, but now, after coming to terms that I was going to keep my baby, I was learning to embrace my pregnancy.

Like a thief, the image of her taut, well-formed body crept into his mind next. His hair swept backwards, shot up like long needles in the rush of the air and his thoughts grew bolder. He marveled how beautifully her body arched as she stood and gave commands. Vishwakarma, the god of all craftsmen, in an exalting moment had threaded a wire through it to give it that elegant curve. From that instant, the memories of a wife, of dear daughters waiting back in the village seemed hazy as in a dream. Inhibitions became soft barriers. He remembered the gestures of Chanda Bai’s two hands as she talked; her palms like delicate seashells; her elegant fingers. Flashes of her jewel studded ears, another pair of shells; and her long hair lovingly braided by her servants with thick strands of white and yellow jasmine flowers interlaced in them. He wanted to caress those flowers with his finger.

Leave when you’re pissed… that shit triggers me… don’t ever do that shit to me, ight?” I looked into her eyes. “Don’t ever leave me when you’re mad. You mad? Go into another room, but leaving while we’re fighting is a no for me.

Listening to their argument made me aware of how empty my life was, and I hated the life I was living all the more. It was quite obvious to me this lady was deeply in love, for she was fighting for what she thought to be hers. Even though I was dating two females at the time, and stringing a third one along, yet I’ve yet to discover that kind of love. I guess this was why my favorite song was ‘I wane be love’, by the Jamaican reggae super star Buru Banton.

When I was younger, my mother was an elementary school teacher and when she would come home from work, I would help her grade her student’s assignments. It was then, at the age of ten, that I realized that when I grew up, I wanted to become a teacher just like my mom.

I like literature," I said. "We started watching the film version of Romeo and Juliet today." I didn't tell them this, but the love story fascinated me. The way the lovers fell so deeply and irrevocably in love after their first meeting sparked a burning curiosity in me about what human love might feel like. "How are you finding that?" Ivy asked. "It's very powerful, but the teacher got really mad when one of the boys said something about Lady Capulet." "What did he say?" "He called her a MILF, which must be offensive because Miss Castle called him a thug and sent him out of the room. Gabe, what is a MILF?" Ivy smothered her smile behind a napkin while Gabriel did something I'd never seen before. He blushed and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Some acronym for a teenage obscnity, I imagine," he mumbled. "Yes, but do you know what it means?" He paused, trying to find the right words. "It's a term used by adolescent males to describe a woman who is both attractive and a mother." He cleared his throat and got up quickly to refill the water jug. "I'm sure it must stand for something," I pressed. "It does," Gabriel said. "Ivy, can you remeber what it is?" "I believe it stands for 'mother I'd like to...befriend'," said my sister. "Is that all?" I exclaimed. "What a fuss over nothing. I really think Miss Castle needs to chill.

Pharisees invest heavily in extrinsic religious gestures, rituals, methods, and techniques, breeding allegedly holy people who are judgmental, mechanical, lifeless, and as intolerant of others as they are of themselves—violent people, the very opposite of holiness and love, “the type of ‘spiritual’ people who, conscious of their spirituality, then proceed to crucify the Messiah.”[2] Jesus did not die at the hands of muggers, rapists, or thugs. He fell into the well-scrubbed hands of deeply religious people, society’s most respected members.

As Herman explains, a victim of domestic abuse doesn't have this advantage. She is 'taken prisoner gradually, by courtship'. Before she feels trapped by fear and control, it is love that first binds her to her abuser, and it's love that makes her forgive him when he says he won't abuse her again. Abusers are rarely simple thugs or sadists - if they were, they'd be far easier to avoid or apprehend. Instead, like all men, they can be loving, kind, charming and warm, and they struggle with personal pain and uncertainty. This is who the woman falls in love with.

He had the misfortune to fall in love with a thug, who has threatened to kill Malone simply because Malone no longer loves him and was foolish enough to say so. Latins, my dear, are the only ones who take love seriously. Malone is now being chased around Manhattan by knives and bullets. He never has sex.

Because my father has never cheated on my mama. NEVER! My father is rich, filthy rich, and your mama trapped him, so she can get his money. She seduced him into her bed, so he could be with her and get him to leave my mother. You knew all about it and didn’t tell me.” “You sound stupid ass fuck. You just trying to blame my

The joy of killing! the joy of seeing killing done--these are traits of the human race at large. We white people are merely modified Thugs; Thugs fretting under the restraints of a not very thick skin of civilization; Thugs who long ago enjoyed the slaughter of the Roman arena, and later the burning of doubtful Christians by authentic Christians in the public squares, and who now, with the Thugs of Spain and Nimes, flock to enjoy the blood and misery of the bull-ring. We have no tourists of either sex or any religion who are able to resist the delights of the bull-ring when opportunity offers; and we are gentle Thugs in the hunting-season, and love to chase a tame rabbit and kill it. Still, we have made some progress--microscopic, and in truth scarcely worth mentioning, and certainly nothing to be proud of--still it is progress: we no longer take pleasure in slaughtering or burning helpless men. We have reached a little altitude where we may look down upon the Indian Thugs with a complacent shudder; and we may even hope for a day, many centuries hence, when our posterity will look down upon us in the same way.

Kove…Karma, and Love put together. The people who truly love me are the ones that will see my love being returned to them. You get what you give…Kove…Or? When you love someone so much…it’s always a sacrifice…some type of karma coming back to fuck with you…Love is never free to me…” She said as my mind slowly tried to wrap around the statement. Never seeing karma used in a positive yet negative light at the same time.

A life of madness I have been living for fifteen years. I have thrown away everything I had, my devoted wife, two lovely children, my family, my wealth on a hopeless passion. My love that once glowed like a warm flame is gone. A fire burns inside me now. My love, instead of being upheld has been cast aside like dirt. I can weep all I want out of rage and self-loathing but the world will only laugh at the sight of me.

Are you okay? What’s wrong? Melo?" she asked as she looked at me. "I’m sorry, Lydia. This food nasty as hell. I don’t mean no harm, but I can't stand that fucking taste. How the hell you don’t know how to fry a simple piece of pork chop? "That’s rude as fuck, Carmelo. At least you can appreciate me for standing over that hot fucking stove and cooking for your ungrateful ass," she said as the baby started crying, and she walked into his bedroom to get him. I sat there wondering how all that time I was sneaking around with her the food was good as fuck and this shit was nasty. I slid from under the table to go into the bathroom to wash my mouth out since my appetite was gone. I was just going to lie down for the night.

is, of course, in Juvenal’s nature to mock everything. Ordinary people might hate the city and love the country, or they might feel the opposite way. It takes the spleen of Juvenal to loathe the city over several hundred lines of verse, and then mock the only alternative he offers. It is a very urban cynicism, and perhaps that is what the city really offers. A sense of having seen and done it all. Sophistication or jadedness, depending on one’s perspective. If the construct of the countryside is a charming, small-scale, olde-worlde innocence that it doesn’t really possess, then the city is also as much myth as it is reality. The construct of cities is that they are the only places where dangerous, important, society-changing things can happen. Governments sit, law courts judge, traders sell, thugs maraud, all of humanity eventually jostles each other in a city.

It is, of course, in Juvenal’s nature to mock everything. Ordinary people might hate the city and love the country, or they might feel the opposite way. It takes the spleen of Juvenal to loathe the city over several hundred lines of verse, and then mock the only alternative he offers. It is a very urban cynicism, and perhaps that is what the city really offers. A sense of having seen and done it all. Sophistication or jadedness, depending on one’s perspective. If the construct of the countryside is a charming, small-scale, olde-worlde innocence that it doesn’t really possess, then the city is also as much myth as it is reality. The construct of cities is that they are the only places where dangerous, important, society-changing things can happen. Governments sit, law courts judge, traders sell, thugs maraud, all of humanity eventually jostles each other in a city.

It was about a year ago when I first made contact with members of the British Foreign Office. I volunteered my services and privileged information to a foreign power. Which is effectively treason, or would be, except that I regard it as pure patriotism. You see, Clara, I no longer recognize the Germany I love. I see these brutes strong-arming a small nation like Austria, and now threatening Czechoslovakia, because they can and because no one will stop them. I see them running riot with the rule of law - Germany, whose legal system is the greatest in the world, which has always stood for justice and right. And when I see this gang of thugs flooding the streets of my beloved country with tides of blood, I feel hatred swelling inside me. Damn Himmler and Heydrich and all the other sadists. I hate this false Germany, as much as I love the real Germany. And I intend to do something about it.

King immediately appreciated that Gandhi’s theory of nonviolent resistance was not a moralistic affirmation of love, as nonviolence had been in the teachings of Jesus. Instead it was a set of hardheaded tactics to prevail over an adversary by outwitting him rather than trying to annihilate him. A taboo on violence, King inferred, prevents a movement from being corrupted by thugs and firebrands who are drawn to adventure and mayhem. It preserves morale and focus among followers when the movement suffers early defeats. By removing any pretext for legitimate retaliation by the enemy, it stays on the positive side of the moral ledger in the eyes of third parties, while luring the enemy onto the negative side. For the same reason, it divides the enemy, paring away supporters who find it increasingly uncomfortable to identify themselves with one-sided violence. All the while it can press its agenda by making a nuisance of itself with sit-ins, strikes, and demonstrations.

Here was both a very American personal success story and a glimpse of what post-democracy strongman rule might look like in the United States, signaled not by a uniformed march on Rome or a Reichstag fire but by a governor who became senator while simultaneously keeping the governor’s job, breaking the spine of democracy in his state with the help of a cadre of brass-knuckled bodyguards, engineering kidnappings of his enemies, and defeating or sidestepping multiple impeachments and indictments and investigations, all while soaking up adoration at a muddy rural rally with farmers or in a roaring ballroom full of tuxedoed and gowned admirers, his vast and disparate audiences too in love with his charm to much care what he actually meant. Somehow simultaneously cherubic and menacing in appearance, Huey Long was a populist, a rule breaker, a shockingly gifted orator, and a thug. He once commanded National Guard troops to mount an actual true-blue armed military assault on the municipal government of the largest city in his state. The man launched an armed invasion of New Orleans!—and got away with it. The best contemporaneous biography of Long in Louisiana was subtitled “The American Rehearsal for Dictatorship.

But the church of this country is not only indifferent to the wrongs of the slave, it actually takes sides with the oppressors. It has made itself the bulwark of American slavery, and the shield of American slave-hunters. Many of its most eloquent Divines. who stand as the very lights of the church, have shamelessly given the sanction of religion and the Bible to the whole slave system. They have taught that man may, properly, be a slave; that the relation of master and slave is ordained of God; that to send back an escaped bondman to his master is clearly the duty of all the followers of the Lord Jesus Christ; and this horrible blasphemy is palmed off upon the world for Christianity. For my part, I would say, welcome infidelity! welcome atheism! welcome anything! in preference to the gospel, as preached by those Divines! They convert the very name of religion into an engine of tyranny, and barbarous cruelty, and serve to confirm more infidels, in this age, than all the infidel writings of Thomas Paine, Voltaire, and Bolingbroke, put together, have done! These ministers make religion a cold and flintyhearted thing, having neither principles of right action, nor bowels of compassion. They strip the love of God of its beauty, and leave the throng of religion a huge, horrible, repulsive form. It is a religion for oppressors, tyrants, man-stealers, and thugs. It is not that "pure and undefiled religion" which is from above, and which is "first pure, then peaceable, easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy." But a religion which favors the rich against the poor; which exalts the proud above the humble; which divides mankind into two classes, tyrants and slaves; which says to the man in chains, stay there; and to the oppressor, oppress on; it is a religion which may be professed and enjoyed by all the robbers and enslavers of mankind; it makes God a respecter of persons, denies his fatherhood of the race, and tramples in the dust the great truth of the brotherhood of man. All this we affirm to be true of the popular church, and the popular worship of our land and nation - a religion, a church, and a worship which, on the authority of inspired wisdom, we pronounce to be an abomination in the sight of God. In the language of Isaiah, the American church might be well addressed, "Bring no more vain ablations; incense is an abomination unto me: the new moons and Sabbaths, the calling of assemblies, I cannot away with; it is iniquity even the solemn meeting…. Yea! when ye make many prayers, I will not hear. YOUR HANDS ARE FULL OF BLOOD; cease to do evil, learn to do well; seek judgment; relieve the oppressed; judge for the fatherless; plead for the widow.

How I Got That Name Marilyn Chin an essay on assimilation I am Marilyn Mei Ling Chin Oh, how I love the resoluteness of that first person singular followed by that stalwart indicative of “be," without the uncertain i-n-g of “becoming.” Of course, the name had been changed somewhere between Angel Island and the sea, when my father the paperson in the late 1950s obsessed with a bombshell blond transliterated “Mei Ling” to “Marilyn.” And nobody dared question his initial impulse—for we all know lust drove men to greatness, not goodness, not decency. And there I was, a wayward pink baby, named after some tragic white woman swollen with gin and Nembutal. My mother couldn’t pronounce the “r.” She dubbed me “Numba one female offshoot” for brevity: henceforth, she will live and die in sublime ignorance, flanked by loving children and the “kitchen deity.” While my father dithers, a tomcat in Hong Kong trash— a gambler, a petty thug, who bought a chain of chopsuey joints in Piss River, Oregon, with bootlegged Gucci cash. Nobody dared question his integrity given his nice, devout daughters and his bright, industrious sons as if filial piety were the standard by which all earthly men are measured. * Oh, how trustworthy our daughters, how thrifty our sons! How we’ve managed to fool the experts in education, statistic and demography— We’re not very creative but not adverse to rote-learning. Indeed, they can use us. But the “Model Minority” is a tease. We know you are watching now, so we refuse to give you any! Oh, bamboo shoots, bamboo shoots! The further west we go, we’ll hit east; the deeper down we dig, we’ll find China. History has turned its stomach on a black polluted beach— where life doesn’t hinge on that red, red wheelbarrow, but whether or not our new lover in the final episode of “Santa Barbara” will lean over a scented candle and call us a “bitch.” Oh God, where have we gone wrong? We have no inner resources! * Then, one redolent spring morning the Great Patriarch Chin peered down from his kiosk in heaven and saw that his descendants were ugly. One had a squarish head and a nose without a bridge Another’s profile—long and knobbed as a gourd. A third, the sad, brutish one may never, never marry. And I, his least favorite— “not quite boiled, not quite cooked," a plump pomfret simmering in my juices— too listless to fight for my people’s destiny. “To kill without resistance is not slaughter” says the proverb. So, I wait for imminent death. The fact that this death is also metaphorical is testament to my lethargy. * So here lies Marilyn Mei Ling Chin, married once, twice to so-and-so, a Lee and a Wong, granddaughter of Jack “the patriarch” and the brooding Suilin Fong, daughter of the virtuous Yuet Kuen Wong and G.G. Chin the infamous, sister of a dozen, cousin of a million, survived by everbody and forgotten by all. She was neither black nor white, neither cherished nor vanquished, just another squatter in her own bamboo grove minding her poetry— when one day heaven was unmerciful, and a chasm opened where she stood. Like the jowls of a mighty white whale, or the jaws of a metaphysical Godzilla, it swallowed her whole. She did not flinch nor writhe, nor fret about the afterlife, but stayed! Solid as wood, happily a little gnawed, tattered, mesmerized by all that was lavished upon her and all that was taken away!

Here are two examples of just how strange and unique humans can be when they go about harming one another and caring for one another. The first example involves, well, my wife. So we’re in the minivan, our kids in the back, my wife driving. And this complete jerk cuts us off, almost causing an accident, and in a way that makes it clear that it wasn’t distractedness on his part, just sheer selfishness. My wife honks at him, and he flips us off. We’re livid, incensed. Asshole-where’s-the-cops-when-you-need-them, etc. And suddenly my wife announces that we’re going to follow him, make him a little nervous. I’m still furious, but this doesn’t strike me as the most prudent thing in the world. Nonetheless, my wife starts trailing him, right on his rear. After a few minutes the guy’s driving evasively, but my wife’s on him. Finally both cars stop at a red light, one that we know is a long one. Another car is stopped in front of the villain. He’s not going anywhere. Suddenly my wife grabs something from the front seat divider, opens her door, and says, “Now he’s going to be sorry.” I rouse myself feebly—“Uh, honey, do you really think this is such a goo—” But she’s out of the car, starts pounding on his window. I hurry over just in time to hear my wife say, “If you could do something that mean to another person, you probably need this,” in a venomous voice. She then flings something in the window. She returns to the car triumphant, just glorious. “What did you throw in there!?” She’s not talking yet. The light turns green, there’s no one behind us, and we just sit there. The thug’s car starts to blink a very sensible turn indicator, makes a slow turn, and heads down a side street into the dark at, like, five miles an hour. If it’s possible for a car to look ashamed, this car was doing it. “Honey, what did you throw in there, tell me?” She allows herself a small, malicious grin. “A grape lollipop.” I was awed by her savage passive-aggressiveness—“You’re such a mean, awful human that something must have gone really wrong in your childhood, and maybe this lollipop will help correct that just a little.” That guy was going to think twice before screwing with us again. I swelled with pride and love.

In truth, I wouldn’t mind the spinster life. It’s kind of like the thug life but with more baguettes.

The invariant recollection of pain is the divine existence reminding you of the unattended sorrow that ought to vacate your body. Don’t be terrified to excavate the grave of pain you concealed when you were frightened to witness its dissolvement. You speak of it continuously and accept an identity out of it, but it wails for a release, for the light inside of you makes it unbearable to exist. It doesn’t belong there. Approach pain like a giant, approach pain like a thug, grab it and hold it inside your hands, squeeze the life out of it. Never offer pain an opportunity of permanency in your body. Destroy the bungalow you comfortably assembled for pain, the area it inhabits is meant for something far more beautiful. Sit with it, until it loses all its incense.

I want to open with ‘Fell For the Opp’, then it goes ‘Stole a Thug’s Heart’, ‘A Savage Resolution’, ‘I Keep A Hitta Beside Me’, ‘Love’s Unexpected Danger’, then these two new tracks we been working on.

some of these hoes are; dick and dollars go hand in hand.

Each time I visited the DPRK, I was shocked anew by their bastardization of the Korean language. Curses had taken root not only in their conversation and speeches but in their written language. They were everywhere—in poems, newspapers, in official Workers’ Party speeches, even in the lyrics of songs performed on this most hallowed day. It was like finding the words fuck and shit in a presidential speech or on the front page of the New York Times. Their spoken language was equally crude, no matter the occasion. For example, during the previous day’s speech, Lee Myung-bak and his administration were referred to as nom and paetguhri-dul (that bastard and his thugs). I was relieved that I did not hear my students speak Korean often enough to know whether they had inherited this legacy. Yet I would sometimes hear expressions that warmed my heart—archaic, innocent-sounding words that made me feel as though the entire country were a small village undisturbed by time. Instead of the prosaic soohwa, meaning sign language, North Koreans said “finger talk,” and instead of “developing photos” they said “images waking up,” which I found lovely and poetic.

Thugs the world over loved nothing more than to look down on their vassals from a balcony.

Wow, I really like your... um... arm painting!" Rapunzel said to the man in the metal helmet as they squeezed by him. The picture was of a cupcake, with what looked like a whisk and a spoon crossed in front of it. "I love making cupcakes on rainy days when I'm feeling down!" Of course she couldn't see the expression on his face as he turned to watch her go. And it was very hard to hear him whisper, over the background noise: "She knows. Finally, someone who gets it....

Can I call you Daddy, too?" Man! I had to chant, "Thugs don't cry. Thugs don't cry," about a hundred times. This little girl stayed testing my gangsta, melting a nigga's heart. I saw tears well up in her eyes and realized I hadn't answered her. Her feelings were hurt! "Lady bug, I'd be happy if you called me Daddy. I love you so much.

This man might be a thug, a criminal, and mentally unstable, but he’s my monster and I love him.

The general public always thought of cold cases as impossible to solve. They weren’t completely wrong, but oftentimes, Will found that the passage of time gave witnesses more perspective. Mostly, it came down to the simple fact that they weren’t scared anymore. The bullies and thugs who’d intimidated them had either died young or ended up in prison. Marriages dissolved. Love ran out. Reputations were damaged or rebuilt. In short, a long stretch of time could lend more focus to past events.

This would be a soul tie they would never be able to break even if they tried to run from it, their souls would find each other again and never let go.

Because I need to feel something. Even if it's not as intense as I want it to be, it's still something…

You haven’t heard baby? I’m an urban legend.

So, Baby, I’ll be seeing you soon. Eventually, you’ll break down and talk to me. Next time keep the dramatics to a two.

I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.

They aren’t thugs,” I balk, unable to do this again. It’s like she forgets who she is. “No more than Dad is, and you married him. They’re sweet and smart. Wells treats Ivy like a queen. Any woman should be so fortunate. Gage bakes with her all the time and loves period drama. Ty has a way of tapping into the heart of a person, like he’s rescuing the world one battered soul at a time. And Liam … Liam is so many things. He’s a genius for one. Devoted. And funny. And much deeper than anyone would expect. And all of them are phenomenal with that little girl.

Yoooo, Pop, the next time you want to wake up like you had an acting part in The Living Dead, let my thug ass know. You almost got yo’ ass knocked back into that coma you was in. Wake yo’ ass up like regular people do when they been in a coma, slow and muthafuckin’ easy,” Nas said, shaking his head at me.

Nahhh, I didn’t break it. I fucked it how it should be fucked, lil’ baby! Argghhhhh! Fuck, this some good pussy!” He growled as he let loose in the condom. A few minutes later, we got up and took a shower. I was so damn tired. I knew I was going to sleep the day away. “Oh yeah, cancel that nigga,” he spoke, pulling me into him. I didn’t respond, but I damn sure heard him. Damn, I love me a thugged out, rude ass nigga.

Ahhh, hell nawl! This ‘pose to be a time of cheer not a time of fear. Lil nigga since the guns pointed at yo’ ass, I assume you the fuckin problem. Did you even find out what type of family you was gone be spending yo’ time with for the holidays before you came up in here doing whatever the fuck you did? ‘Cause you in a room full of murderers, goons, thugged out niggas, and cold-blooded killers!

We were watching videos at night on her Samsung tablet or my company iPad. She showed me the Silvano Agosti 1983 Italian interview with a little Italian boy called “D'Amore si vive, We Live of Love.” The boy was so cute, and his thoughts seemed similar to mine and Martina's. I was so deeply in love with her. The boy on the interview was just like what our own child would be, and we agreed and laughed. “We Live of Love.” What a coincidence! Living. By: Love. I knew the interview from before and she was surprised at how I knew about it. I showed her on my Instagram a picture of the boy I had recently taken a screenshot of and posted. With the subtitle at the right moment under his face: “Descubrir a la vida.” To discover life. Together. With his one and only girlfriend, as the boy explains. I told her multiple times that I was still unsure if she was real, or if it was all a dream; if I had only dreamed of her one night in the dark; if Pinto and I had invented her in my mind. She was a big fan of space, but I thought she liked the mystery behind the endless space with all its questions and secrets for us humans. I thought she liked the sky and space because she recently flew from Argentina to land in my arms. Martina and I were obsessed with Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy; we both knew all their stand-up comedies by heart. We kept replaying the best moments or faces that Chris or Eddie made. We had so much fun watching the same videos over and over that I couldn't believe it. Nobody else ever found the same moments or the same stand-ups as funny as Martina and I did. Nobody before or after found it so amusing. If I showed it to someone, they didn't understand why I was so excited about it or why racist jokes were so funny for an hour from one black comedian to the next. We were obsessed the way Eddie spoke about the „Zebra-Bitch of her dreams, her dream-wife who doesn’t know the concept of money”, saying “she should have an afro, like Angela Davis goes 'God damn it.'“ We were laughing so much. Sometimes I tickled her flat belly or her ribs and she was laughing so sweetly and so much that she couldn't stop. She was begging me to stop tickling her when I barely touched her. She said “No, no, no, no” so many times so quickly and cutely that I had to stop and kiss her; I couldn't resist her lips or her person, I had to kiss and hug her. We laughed so much at particular parts of Chris Rock's stand-up comedies that we could barely stop, almost as if we were tickling each other. We were laughing when Chris Rock was mocking Bone-Thugs-n-Harmony for singing ‘Welfare chariots’ such as „The First of the Month” or when he explained that the government hates rappers, but „only the good rappers get gunned down. They could find Saddam Hussein in a cave in Iraq but couldn't arrest anyone related to Tupac Shakur’s assassination, which didn't happen in a cave in Iraq but in Las Vegas, on the Strip, not one of those side streets, but in front of Circus Circus, after a Mike Tyson fight. Now how many witnesses do you need, to arrest somebody?” We were fascinated with Eddie Murphy, Charlie Murphy, and Chris Rock, but when I showed her Richard Prior, Doug Stanhope, Aries Spears, or George Carlin, she was no longer so impressed for some reason. Her favorite part perhaps was when Chris Rock talked about love and relationships. He said that „you never really been in love unless you have contemplated murder; unless you have practiced your alibi in front of the mirror, staring at a can of rat poison for 45 minutes straight, you haven't been in love. And the only thing preventing you from killing your significant other was an episode of CSI.” He said that relationships are hard and that in order for them to work, both people need to have the same focus, which is all about: her.

We were watching videos at night on her Samsung tablet or my company iPad. She showed me the Silvano Agosti 1983 Italian interview with a little Italian boy called “D'Amore si vive, We Live of Love.” The boy was so cute, and his thoughts seemed similar to mine and Martina's. I was so deeply in love with her. The boy on the interview was just like what our own child would be, and we agreed and laughed. “We Live of Love.” What a coincidence! Living. By: Love. I knew the interview from before and she was surprised at how I knew about it. I showed her on my Instagram a picture of the boy I had recently taken a screenshot of and posted. With the subtitle at the right moment under his face: “Descubrir a la vida.” To discover life. Together. With his one and only girlfriend, as the boy explains. I told her multiple times that I was still unsure if she was real, or if it was all a dream; if I had only dreamed of her one night in the dark; if Pinto and I had invented her in my mind. She was a big fan of space, but I thought she liked the mystery behind the endless space with all its questions and secrets for us humans. I thought she liked the sky and space because she recently flew from Argentina to land in my arms. Martina and I were obsessed with Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy; we both knew all their stand-up comedies by heart. We kept replaying the best moments or faces that Chris or Eddie made. We had so much fun watching the same videos over and over that I couldn't believe it. Nobody else ever found the same moments or the same stand-ups as funny as Martina and I did. Nobody before or after found it so amusing. If I showed it to someone, they didn't understand why I was so excited about it or why racist jokes were so funny for an hour from one black comedian to the next. We were obsessed the way Eddie spoke about the „Zebra-Bitch of his dreams, his dream-wife who doesn’t know the concept of money”, saying “she should have an afro, like Angela Davis goes 'God damn it.'“ We were laughing so much. Sometimes I tickled her flat belly or her ribs and she was laughing so sweetly and so much that she couldn't stop. She was begging me to stop tickling her when I barely touched her. She said “No, no, no, no” so many times so quickly and cutely that I had to stop and kiss her; I couldn't resist her lips or her person, I had to kiss and hug her. We laughed so much at particular parts of Chris Rock's stand-up comedies that we could barely stop, almost as if we were tickling each other. We were laughing when Chris Rock was mocking Bone-Thugs-n-Harmony for singing ‘Welfare chariots’ such as „The First of the Month” or when he explained that the government hates rappers, but „only the good rappers get gunned down. They could find Saddam Hussein in a cave in Iraq but couldn't arrest anyone related to Tupac Shakur’s assassination, which didn't happen in a cave in Iraq but in Las Vegas, on the Strip, not one of those side streets, but in front of Circus Circus, after a Mike Tyson fight. Now how many witnesses do you need, to arrest somebody?” We were fascinated with Eddie Murphy, Charlie Murphy, and Chris Rock, but when I showed her Richard Prior, Doug Stanhope, Aries Spears, or George Carlin, she was no longer so impressed for some reason. Her favorite part perhaps was when Chris Rock talked about love and relationships. He said that „you never really been in love unless you have contemplated murder; unless you have practiced your alibi in front of the mirror, staring at a can of rat poison for 45 minutes straight, you haven't been in love. And the only thing preventing you from killing your significant other was an episode of CSI.” He said that relationships are hard and that in order for them to work, both people need to have the same focus, which is all about: her.

My heart began to race as I listened to Wade. “We need you to come down to the station right away for a positive ID.” My eyebrows scrunched. “Detective, it’s damn near midnight. Besides, I don’t know what the guy looks like. Can’t this wait until morning?” Detective Wade paused. “Well, it could, however, I can’t hold him much longer. The sooner you come in, the quicker this will be over. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.” I thought about the three glasses of wine that I had and wondered if I was coherent enough to drive. I was, but again it was almost midnight.

Take that shit off, and we both gon’ be holding hands while they transportin’ us to the coroner’s office. How my feelings are set up, you know I ain’t bullshittin’.

Sophia sweetly smiled as I helped her to her feet. Her white Adidas sneakers were silent as she crossed the tiled floor to stand in front of EBD. I stood by her side, daring that nigga to buck. “Open your mouth,” Sophia demanded. EBD grilled Sophia defiantly. “Baby, tell this nigga I don’t repeat myself,” Sophia said sweetly. I cocked my head to the left, grilling him. EBD opened his mouth, his eyes never leaving Sophia. Before he could blink, Sophia popped a dissolvable pill into his mouth. By the time he was trying to spit it out, it was too late. “You’re allergic to triptans and peanuts, right?” Sophia goaded as EBD fell to the floor in a panic. He began coughing, clawing at his throat as his eyes bulged. “Your friend, Dr. Mitchell knew everything about you. The tablet I just popped in your mouth, I happened to find at the bottom of a brand-new canister of roasted peanuts.” She smiled before dropping to her haunches at his side. EBD was wheezing and struggling for breath. Tears streamed from his eyes as they begged for help. “You’re suffering,” Sophia pretended to care. “That feeling that you feel is how you’ve made a lot of families feel over the years you’ve been carrying on this disgusting lifestyle. Burn in hell, muthafucka!” My baby got up and switched her sexy ass over to Gatah. She kissed his cheek. “Where the hell is my daughter-in-law? You were supposed to stay home with her.” Everyone chuckled. “I had to come make sure you and Pops ain’t fuck shit up.” I scoffed. “The fuck! Boy, I taught you this shit!” We all enjoyed a good laugh while we watched EBD take his last breath.

Move, Shaun,” Yaya said again. This time she looked me dead in my eyes. The fire dancing in her beautiful orbs dared me not to do what the fuck she said. “This isn’t about you. That ho put her hands on me, so I’ma give her what the fuck she wants!” Standing here, I thought back to when she kept me from beating Erik’s ass. Had that nigga put his hands on me, nothing anyone would’ve done could’ve saved him. I understood where Yaya was coming from, which was why I faked like she pushed my big ass to give her enough space to leap off of the sofa. No one was holding Shayla back, so she immediately went to swing on Yaya. Dodging that shit like a pro, Yaya delivered a right hook to Shayla’s face that made Shayla’s neck snap back. Shayla stumbled backward as her arms flailed, trying to keep up with Yaya. Yaya’s ass delivered straight blows to Shayla’s face—no hair pulling. It only took a handful of punches for Shayla to trip and bust her ass on the marble floors. Instead of Yaya jumping on top of Shayla to finish her off, Yaya backed away, shaking her head. “Next time I won’t be so fuckin’ nice,” she stated too fucking calmly. Everyone in the section followed Yaya’s switching ass as she went back to the table to pour her a drink. She plopped down on the sofa and crossed her legs. Her bare foot swayed as she sipped her drink as if nothing just happened. Damn, this girl was the truth!

Three pairs of eyes stared at me as I moved to the checkout station. Immediately, my eyes fell on the milk chocolate honey my brother had referenced. Damn! A nigga wasn’t lying when he said this woman was bad. I knew it was her, even though the other two women in the room were brown skinned as well. While they were cute in their own way, baby girl was nothing to play with. Her fucking lips had a nigga’s mind gone. She stared me dead in my eyes, and I couldn’t help but feel some type of way about that shit. No woman had ever been bold enough to do that. I leaned my arms onto the counter and licked my lips as we eyed each other. Baby girl could definitely get all this dick. “Excuse me, but can we help you?” The girl standing to her right was eye-fucking me too. Although she was cute, I wasn’t into her in the least. I broke eye contact with my future baby mama to address ole girl. “She can.” I nodded toward my baby. I met her eyes again. This time she looked away as a red tinge stained her cheeks. Bold, but shy…interesting.

Damn, if my ass wasn’t so caught up on Yaya’s sexy ass, I would try to cuff redbone, but I was gon’ leave her for Steph. This nigga better fucking know how much I loved him for finding him his future wife. That fuck ass Megan bitch was as good as gone.

Consider Jesus’s genealogy in Matthew 1:1–17. In the ancient world, genealogies determined a person’s status—whether you came from an honorable family or a shameful one. A person’s family line says something about that person. Their character, their social status, the types of people they would hang out with. And Jesus’s genealogy says one thing loud and clear: Jesus is right at home with sinners, thugs, and outcasts. Most genealogies list only the male descendants. Remember, the ancient world was patriarchal. Men were more valued than women, so there was no need to list women—thanks for bearing our children, but we’ll take it from here. But Jesus’s genealogy lists five women, most of whom have some shady event attached to their name, all of whom we’ve already met. The first woman is Tamar, the Canaanite woman who dressed up as a prostitute in order to have sex with her father-in-law, Judah. Her plan succeeded, and she became pregnant with Perez, the one whom God would weave into Jesus’s family line. Next is Rahab, Jericho’s down-and-out prostitute, who was the first Canaanite to receive God’s grace. Among all the Canaanite leaders, among all the skilled warriors, Rahab was the only one who savored the majesty of Israel’s God. Then there’s Ruth, the foreign widow burdening a famished society. A social outcast, a perceived stigma of God’s judgment, Ruth was grafted into the messianic line. Then there’s “the wife of Uriah,” Bathsheba, who was entangled in the sinful affair with King David—the man who murdered her husband. Finally, there’s Mary, the teenage girl who got pregnant out of wedlock. Though she would become an icon in church tradition, her name was synonymous with shame and scandal in the beginning of the first century. You thought your family was messed up. All of these women were social outcasts. They belonged under a bridge. Whether it was their gender, ethnicity, or some sort of sexual debacle, they were rejected by society yet were part of Jesus’s genealogy—a tapestry of grace. Not only was God born in a feeding trough to enter our pain, but He chose to be born into a family tree filled with lust, perversion, murder, and deceit. This tells us a lot about the types of people Jesus wants to hang out with. It tells us that Jesus loves Tamars, Judahs, Gomers, and you.

Reagan,” Dad barks. I blow out a quick breath and say very nicely, “Yes, Dad.” “Chase Gerald’s father just called.” He looks at where my hand is tangled with Pete’s, and if death rays that shoot from the eyes existed, then Pete would be a puddle of ashes on the ground. “Is that the guy from the drugstore?” Pete whispers. I nod, slicing my eyes toward Pete for a second. “What did he want?” I can already guess, and my heart sinks at the very thought of it. “He said Chase came home talking about you being at the drugstore with some thug.” He glares at Pete, and Pete stiffens, his hand tightening on mine. “Did you explain who Pete is?” I ask. I don’t want to leave anyone with a misconception about Pete. “I told him that he’s someone my daughter is crushing on, but that I wasn’t worried about it because she’s a smart girl with her head on straight.” His voice rises on the last words, and his glare at Pete grows even fiercer. “I’m not crushing,” I protest. But I so am. Dad faces me. “Then what would you call it?” I don’t know what to call it because I don’t know what it is. I shrug. Pete stiffens more when I do that than he has since Dad came through the gate. “Chase wanted to know if you might want to go to the party at the country club tomorrow.” “I already told him no,” I say. But I can already see the look on my dad’s face. That’s not going to work. “I told him you’d love to.” He opens the gate and stops, looking at me from over his shoulder. “He’s picking you up at six.” I growl under my breath. Mainly because there’s not much more I can do since Dad is gone. The gate slams shut behind him. I pull my hand from Pete’s. “Where are you going?” Pete asks. “To catch my dad so I can tell him I’m not going.” “Do you want to go?” he asks. He watches me closely, his blue eyes blinking slowly. “If I wanted to go, I wouldn’t have told him no.” I heave a sigh. He steps back from me and takes all the warmth I was basking in a minute ago with him. “I think you should go,” he says quietly. “Why?” I ask softly. Something is really, really wrong. He doesn’t usually distance himself like this. “Your dad wants you to go,” he says with a shrug. “You don’t want to piss him off.” He starts to walk down the length of the pool. He signs to the boys, and they all start to put away the balls and the floats and they line up by the door. “I’ll see you later,” he calls quietly. Then he leads the boys from the pool area back toward their cabins. What did I do wrong? I seriously have no idea.

How could you do that?” I ask. My heart is thumping like crazy, and I can barely catch my breath. “What did you do?” my mother asks. Dad shrugs and washes his hands at the sink. He ignores me completely. Mom raises her brow at me in question. “He called Pete a thug, and then he told me I have to go on a date with Chase just because his father called and snapped his fingers.” I snap mine for good measure. Mom’s inquisitive grin turns into a scowl. “What?” she asks. She grabs my father’s shoulder and turns him to face her. “You of all people called Pete a thug?” “To his face!” I shout. “Then Pete left. And I don’t even know what he’s thinking.” “I know what he’s thinking,” Dad murmurs. Mom frowns. “He’s thinking you don’t like him!” Dad makes a noncommittal hum. That’s it? A hum? Mom’s face softens. She can read Dad like a book. I just wish I could. “What?” I ask. I look back and forth between them. “Your dad is afraid Pete’s trying to get in your pants,” Mom says. She lifts her brow at Dad. Dad just glares at her. He won’t even look at me. I throw up my hands. “That’s just it!” I cry. “He’s not trying to get in my pants. He won’t even kiss me!” “Oh,” Mom breathes. Dad murmurs something, and Mom rubs his shoulder, her eyes soft as she looks at him. “What?” I ask again. “Your dad’s afraid you’ll get your heart broken,” she says quietly. She looks sympathetically toward my dad. I take a deep breath and steel myself. “Most girls get to have their hearts broken when they’re eighteen or so. Maybe sixteen or whenever they find their first boyfriend.” I jab a finger toward my chest. “I’ve never even had a boyfriend, Dad,” I say. My eyes fill with tears, but I blink them back. How messed up is this? “I like Pete, and he’s someone you can like, too. So, what’s the problem? We haven’t even been on a date!” “I saw him watching you at the pool.” Dad heaves a sigh. “He looks at you like I look at your mother.” He tips her chin up so that her eyes meet his. “I saw her and I knew she was completely out of my league, but I wanted her more than I ever wanted anything.” He looks at me. “And that’s how Pete looks at you. That’s what scares me, Reagan. Not that he’s a thug or that he’s poor or that he’s been in prison. He looks at you like he never wants to stop looking at you. I’d probably like him more if he was just trying to get in your pants, because that’s something you can get over. But a man loving you, that’s completely different. You’re not ready for it.” He shrugs his shoulders. “You’re just not.” He may as well have stuck a knife in my chest. “How do you know what I’m ready for?” I ask. “I saw what that asshole did to you, Reagan,” he says. He slams his fist down on the kitchen counter, making the dishes jump. And me, too. “I saw you walking around here, jumping at shadows, wrapping yourself in a protective bubble so no one else could hurt you. You learned how to protect your body, but no one ever taught you to protect your heart.” He pounds his fist against his chest. “You’re unprepared for what Pete wants. Completely unprepared.” “What do you want me to do?” I ask. I can barely hear myself, but Dad hears me. “Stop it before it’s too late,” he spits out. “Just stop it.” “Okay,” I breathe. “You win.

Robert.” It was a sigh and a call at the same time. She ignored the lump in her throat and called again. In an instant, her view was obscured. “Lydia!” They were eye-to-eye, and neither said anything for a moment or two. Finally, after an audible gulp, Robert spoke in a whisper. “Are you all right?” “I’ve had better days,” she said in seriousness, and then realized the absurdity of her words and chuckled. “I’m covered in dirt, cuts, and bruises and sporting a lovely goose egg above my ear. One of my favorite gowns is nothing but a ruin, but other than that, I am fine. And now that you are here, I am better.” “Thank the Lord. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear you say so. I have been imagining all sorts … well, let’s talk about this later.” “Yes, when we don’t have to whisper through a wall.” “Indeed.” “So what is the plan?” “Hmm … well, plans are a little lacking at this moment. I had expected to rush in and simply grab you, but there are three guards by the door. I procured a thick stick, but three to one … well, not good odds. My second idea was to loosen some of these boards and pull you out. I have also acquired a horse. So once out, we can sneak or run, whichever is the most prudent.” “Yes, but the getting-out part seems to be the problem. For, if I am not mistaken, none of the boards on this side of the barn are loose, and the other sides are too close to the villains.” “There does seem to be a decided lack of cooperation on the part of the building. I have, however, noticed something that might offer another possibility. It would require a great deal of trust on your part.” “Oh?” Lydia was almost certain she was not going to like this new possibility. “Yes. There is a hay door above me. Is there a loft inside?” “Are you thinking that I should climb a rickety ladder to the loft and then try to escape through the hay door?” “Just a thought.” “How would I get down?” “That would be the trust part.” “Ahh. I would jump, and you would catch me.” Lydia visualized her descent, skirts every which way, and a very hard landing that might produce a broken body part. “Yes. Not a brilliant plan. Do you have another?” Robert sounded hopeful. “Not really. But might I suggest a variation to yours?” “By all means.” “I will return to my cell and get the rope that the thugs used to tie me up.” “They tied you up?” “Yes. But don’t let it bother you.…” “No?” “No. Because if they hadn’t, then I wouldn’t have a rope to lower myself from the hay door. I can use the one they used on my feet; it’s thick and long.” “I like that so much better than watching you fling yourself from a high perch.” “Me too. It might take a few minutes as I must return to my original cell—I escaped, you know.” “I didn’t. That is quite impressive.” “Thank you. Anyway, I must return to my cell for the rope, climb the ladder, cross the loft to the door … et cetera, et cetera. All in silence, of course.” “Of course.” “It might take as much as twenty minutes.” “I promise to wait. Won’t wander off … pick flowers or party with the thugs.” “Good to know.” “Just warn me before you jump.” “Oh, yes. I will most certainly let you know.” With a deep sigh, Lydia headed back to her cell, slowly and quietly.

I was afraid of you. I know that’s not what you expect to hear from someone like me. I’m the kid from West End—I must be tough, I must be a thug, I must have a gun in my home, I must be in a gang…I bet he’s killed someone, I bet his brother’s in prison. You can see why I was afraid. I was so afraid that I would get here, and that’s all you would see—a picture in your heads that was so far from the truth, but too impossible to overcome.” “I was afraid of discrimination. Of intolerance. Of ignorance. I remember the meetings the admissions board held when I was in junior high, the ones about getting rid of the scholarship program because it exposed good kids to at-risk youth. At. Risk. Youth. That phrase…it’s too small. It’s pejorative. It’s not entirely wrong. Growing up in West End made me. That risk…it toughened me up. It made me fast. It made me fight. When I was a kid, I remember hiding on the floor of my room on Friday nights so stray bullets wouldn’t harm me. I hated my home. I loved it. I would never choose it for someone—never wish for my child to feel the fear I did. I could never imagine growing up somewhere else. That fear made me. That fear is the reason I stand up here; the reason I pushed myself to learn, to question, to try—to argue. That fear was balanced out by faith.” ““You made me, too. You lifted me. You pushed me. You believed in me. You saw the boy from West End. I surprised you. But you—you surprised me, too“When I was afraid, you challenged me. And now, I dare you. I defy you to be great. Do not just be tradition—break tradition. As only you can.

The problem with always being the strong one there was never anybody around to ask if you were okay.

Every day we fight for love, respect, money, position in the world, only to die in the end.” Aaliyah

Kove…Karma, and Love put together. The people who truly love me are the ones that will see my love being returned to them. You get what you give…Kove…Or? When you love someone so much…it’s always a sacrifice…some type of karma coming back to fuck with you…Love is never free to me…

This attack is the greatest tragedy in human history,” Avasarala said. “They want the belt to rise up so they can hide behind the good, decent people who live there? Belters aren’t thugs, and they aren’t murderers, they are men and women who love their children the same as any of us. They are good and evil and wise and foolish and human, and this Free Navy will never be able to kill enough people to make earth forget that shared humanity. Let the Belt consult its own conscious and you’ll see compassion and decency and kindness flourish in any gravity, or none. Earth has been bloodied, but we will not be debased. Not on my fucking watch.

Love is when you can see, feel, and hear it. If one of those senses is off, it ain’t love.

would

beginning

Love, friendship, respect, admiration are the emotional response of one man to the virtues of another, the spiritual payment given in exchange for the personal, selfish pleasure which one man derives from the virtues of another man’s character. Only a brute or an altruist would claim that the appreciation of another person’s virtues is an act of selflessness, that as far as one’s own selfish interest and pleasure are concerned, it makes no difference whether one deals with a genius or a fool, whether one meets a hero or a thug, whether one marries an ideal woman or a slut.

Learn to love you. There is no one who will love you more than you.

All I could do was shake my head at her trifling ass. This was the main reason why we were always fighting. She loves to fuck around with other bitches men. I had no idea why she does this?

I'm not no ugly bitch. There was someone else in this big ass world that would love me. The only problem was I loved Thug and all I wanted was him.

There was no doubt that he loved Avery, but he was so angry with her for even considering killing his child that he could barely stand to see her face, let alone talk to her.

Cam loved CJ more than anything and he couldn’t understand why his bitch of a mother couldn't get her shit together. It

Anyone who knows me knew that I hated that bitch with everything inside of me. Kelis was my first love and my first heartbreak. I couldn't believe that bitch had just up and left a nigga.

Tahari is my heart. I love her. She is more than my daughter-in-law. She is like a real daughter to me, but most importantly she’s a friend.

The hardest thing in the world was watching the man you love be in love with someone else.

Despite what anyone thought, I actually did love my daughter. I just had a fucked up way of showing it.

I cried because the scar reminded me of the abuse I endured at the hands of a man that claimed to love me. Because of him, I had walked around afraid to give myself to another man.

Momma Peaches had even forgiven me, and you know she didn't play about Tahari. She loved her like she was her own daughter.

We love that they’re so passionate about what they believe in, but they have all of us looking like some real bitches right now.

I couldn’t believe my marriage was so close to being over. I took pride in being the only one of my friends that was married and headed in the right track when it came to love.

Because you’re a weak bitch, look at you, just pathetic. You a snake hoe too, how could you look your home girl in the face knowing that you fucking her first love? Bitches like you deserved their ass beat on a regular.

Didn’t I tell these motherfuckers to get the fuck up out of my house?” Veronica yelled to no one in particular.   To

Go get Boscey,” one of them said to the other. She