Ah, yes. The cocking of fists and throwing of chairs and yelling all night about how things are in the hood and the things you've done in jail... Yes, yes. Sure, sure. But when you tell me you own the place and can do what ever the hell you want because you think I'm scared of you? Yeah, no. Tonight this is MY house. And when I lose my patience with you trying to wake up everyone else on the unit and tell you to "Cut the shit, you little punk?"... You start to cry and call me "Ma." Oh honey. You're a scared little crazy little boy in there, huh. Yeah. You're still a punk, though. And I've seen worse than you.
HAPPYSUNSHINEFUNTIME!!!11!!one!!
Constance
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