“Don’t call me whoo-ere, faggot.”- Not Sly and the Family Stone.
As I came home on Saturday morning from picking the pet animal up from surgery, two cops were parked in front of my house. “What a shock” I thought, as the police have been called to my house more times in the seven years of living here, than in 20 years of living in Oakland.
Apparently just before my arrival, Nina was running down the street, sans pants, throwing rocks at her boyfriend exclaiming such catchy phrases as “don’t call me a whore” and “fuck you, faggot.”
If I wasn’t bound by the eye of the storm, I would find amusement in this, but as it stands, I am and I don’t.
Oakland was just getting started when you left.
Wow. When it rains, it pours…buckets of blood and piss.