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If there is one thing I’ve learned from hip-hop music, it's that: "When the pimp's in the crib ma, drop it like its hot," and also, "When them pigs try to get atchu, drop it like its hot," and finally (and this isn't as much from hip-hop music, as it is from UrbanDictionary.com) if you ever have a conversation that starts with "Dude, what should I do with this nitroglycerin?" The answer is always, always “Just drop it like it's hot!” And people try to tell me that hip hop music is a bunch of nonsense. I don't know about everyone else, but Snoop Dogg really speaks to me on a deeper level. I can totally relate with that guy.
Picture this: There's an extension cord plugged into an outlet that sits near the floor in a small boy's bedroom. The cord twists around the floor like a snake, and is connected to a laptop cord that stretches out of the boy's bedroom, down the hall and under a door leading into a brightly lit room. If you opened that door, you'd find a bathroom and in that bathroom, me. I'm sitting on the toilet, totally not using it as a toilet, but as a seat instead. Sitting in my lap, is a laptop because that is where you put laptops. A cigarette sits in an ashtray on the sill of an open window while the smoke blows out so as to avoid the entire apartment smelling like smoke. There is also a fan pushing the smoke away and a can of aerosol air freshener close at hand. My hair is bunched up on top of my head and covered in dark brown grunge. Yes, it is true. I am dying my hair. Again. Right now, to be exact. I've got ten minutes to go before I'm officially a brunette again. They say blondes have more fun, but I say blondes who dye their hair brown have the most fun of all.
I wonder if it is a good idea to be smoking with all this hair dye on my head. For some reason, I have a feeling that this stuff might be flammable or something. This is why I need to live with my sister. If I was living by myself and spontaneously combusted due to cigarette ash landing on my hair dye, I'd die. However, since June's down the hall watching television, she'd be sure to hear my screams of agony and I know she keeps a fire extinguisher under the sink because she's such a horrible cook. I'd probably have a 30% chance of surviving, which is a 30% greater chance than if I were living by myself.
She's being really great about letting me move in with her, too. She's converting her office into my bedroom and she's even putting up with my complaints about how it's the smallest room in the apartment and how it only makes sense and is only fair that Sam take the smallest room because he's the smallest person. God.
I realized that it's not my place to complain. I should be extremely grateful to my big sister for letting me shack up with her. I just couldn't stay in Georgia one more second. I suppose the least I could do would be to stop complaining about the small room. And the bad cooking. And the noisy nephew. And the stupid neighbors. And I should probably stop smoking in her bathroom. I just need to take it one day at a time, I think.
The first thing I really need to do is find a job. I don't really plan on pitching in for the rent, but I hear there are some great clubs around here that I'm dying to check out. I've got this curious urge to drop it like it's hot. But not right now though, because I've got potentially flammable nastiness on my head at the moment. The last thing I need to do is drop anything that's hot.
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