By Brandon Perkins
The snarl was familiar before I ever put my head on the platinum-buttoned ocelot fur couch. “Get money. Fuck bitches.” Eyes closed, I know that my diamond-grilled therapist isn’t taking notes and I wonder how much he’s even listening, while he hypnotically repeats the mantra—Get money. Fuck bitches. Get money. Fuck bitches—each syllable gurgling like a telltale heart gone hood. I don’t remember if I asked him about the major general of the Queen’s Navy chasing me up the mountain or when I diffused a bomb while slathered in white paint or why, in my waking hours, I would actually break up with perfectly scrumptious, wifey-material because she once wore a silly hat. I really don’t think it’d matter. Dr. Weezy F. Baby (please say the motherfuckin’. . .Ph.D) has one lesson: Get money. Fuck bitches. And that’s …



























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