I am head over heels in love with a vibrantly fertile stud named Baby Daddy. Baby Daddy smells of knock off cologne and entitlement and doesn't give a shit about society's opinion of a real man.
My metro Baby Daddy goes to the same beauty parlor as I do and gives a flavorless skinny girl like me advice when I am lucky enough to be in the chair next to his when he gets his fabulous braids. In between calls on his cell to his numours children, (I take care off all my kids. Do you take food stamps?"), their mama's, and his social workers, Baby Daddy is the one to tell me when I'm stylin.
I hopefully programed my digits into his phone when he was being buffed under the name "Hot Booty Biatch". It was the repo man who called me and asked me to settle his bill. I chopped it up with tears.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
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