Solo D.M.C.

a.k.a. The Lack of Run

I've spent a lot of time concentrating on the chemistry of my current state. I know about the smell of desperation and the how I'm repulsed by women who wear it. I know I've worn it for a minute now, though undetectable by my own olfactory, I must be sportin' it helly.

I prided myself on being the cool dude, unfazed and nonchalant. I was that dude when I was at home, though it was a long time coming. That last cool shit I remember doing happened right before I left. I was checkin' this chick out. We went on a couple of dates, but she had a man. She wanted me to promise if she came back to my apartment I wouldn't fuck her, no matter how much she wanted me to.

"How about we skip the part where we go back to my apartment? I mean, we can NOT fuck sittin' right here."

She sat there for a minute in silence. Stunned silence. "You don't want me to come back to your place?" "I don't want you to call me." More silience. "So that's it?" "Yeah, that's it. Finish your drink."

That cat is dead. He was killed dealing with golddigging liars, pseudo-lesbians, faux sincere, moderately attractive fuckbunnies. Lisa Stansfield said it best, "I don't think he's comin' back..."

Well versed in gettin' SONNED by broads during my early years, I can't come close to that shit now. I've been that dude gettin' played, laughed at, thoroughly dissed. A chick from Detroit will crush your fuckin' ego, Bucko. I may get got for a meal or a concert or something these days, but I ask those women who get a little dough outta me: how's your life? I got nothing but the future to look forward to.

KZ