I think I smell a rat.
I Joke, I Joke,
I kid, I kid.

Koodos and stuff to Samantha Thornhill. The breast poem, The Trini accent. All of it. I think her Trini is better than mine, during bullet points. I think Roger and I think accent. Makes Sense doesn't it. I had fun last night at thirteen. The poetry was pretty thick, I didn't want to kill myself as much as I usually want to during the open mic. It was pretty solid, with a dope ass format. The people who were away for holiday finally came back and the reunion was great. Paris, Florida, and other places gave us back our natural New Yorkers.

This past weekend was my hurray weekend. I have weekends off, What shall I do first? Cornelia? Dancing? What should I do?

I'll deal with that when it comes. Hey maybe we can all make some type of celebration plan for Saturday night? A party? A club? Whatever yo.

Marisol hasn't really seen my weekend face. Well a few, but not really my no worries the next day, weekend face. Maybe a few weekends but since it was neverending, there wasn't complete reliefe. Only a little break, but now it isn't a break, it is broken. Ripped to shreds. My poems are forever changed now cause I can't write about 7 day work weeks or extra sleep anymore. Shit ima have to write about dancing mambo with flamingos. Some merengue cha cha cha mix that I might have to invent. Some hybrid of Mambo callypso number 27 of Feb. Carnaval in New York, one for the Trini's and One for the Dominicans. February is our month and we gonna celebrate like tomorrow is armagedeon. We dancing tonight. This weekend I need some Carribean beats. My weekly excersise was lifting more garbage than I can bare every Sunday. I don't have that anymore, so ima have to sweat my steak sandwiches out someway. Don't even suggest sex because that's already covered in the list. Nah I wanna dance. I wanna go to a club pumped with legal uppers and dance dance dance till I get a cramp in my thigh or something.

Guys these are my weekends now, they don't belong to anyone else but me. No more punching clocks, no more Lunch for escape, NO NO NO I will dance and be merry without christmas. Congrats to me I am partially free. Word!