𝐀 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐔𝐬

𝐈 - 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫 (𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐭)

Disclaimer: I don't even know if I need a disclaimer, but I'm putting one just in case. Probably for language. Better safe than sorry.

***

I'm going down, down baby
your street in a Range Rover
Street sweeper baby
cocked ready to let it go
Shimmy, shimmy cocoa what
Listen to it pound
Light it up and take a puff
pass it to me now

***

January 1st, '01

"HAPPY YEAR'S!"

The crowd of people in the house gathered closer and closer; sweaty bodies linked to sweatier ones, as couples and strangers each gravitated towards each other into one nasty ass kiss.

"I can't decide if this shit is disgusting or straight up ghetto," I said out loud, to no one in particular. The stench of sweat, weed and alcohol was getting stronger by the minute, each odor wrestling to overpower the other. Yeah, this shit was disgusting.

"Nuh-uh. You boring as hell sis," my homegirl, Ristyn (or Ray for short) shouted above the music. "It's crunk up in here, you can't even lie. We," she pointed at me, then to herself, "gettin' busy tonight, bitch."

"Can we just step outside though, for like, a second?," I asked, but grabbed her arm and dragged her outside with me anyway, for good measure.

Outside was, if you could believe it, just as crowded. There was a front yard to the house, and every square inch was put to use. I walked us right out the front yard to the sidewalk, which was less crowded.

"It's dummy cold out here, Yana. And nothin' is happenin'," Ray expressed with annoyance.

"That's the point," I said, breathing in the fresh Queens air.

One thing about Queens, the air was forever clean. We stayed outside a second, or at least until the next song started playing, because the next thing we knew, Nelly's voice came booming through the speakers inside: "HOT SHIT!"

Ray jumped up and cried out, "YO, I'm outta here, sis, they playin' MY song," and flew her way back in. I didn't even blame her. Something about Nelly just sits so right in my soul. So, I stayed outside, looking up at the clear, dark blue, starry sky, enjoying "Country Grammar" from a comfortable and clean distance.

I was chillin' on the sidewalk a hot minute before a shiny, black Chrysler 300c pulled up right in front of me, or the house, depending on how you saw it. "Someone gettin' scrilla", I thought to myself. Must be nice. Just as I was about to look away, the doors opened and two fine ass men stepped out.

The driver walked out with a cocky gap-toothed smile. He had a sky blue durag on, paired with a sky blue jersey and sky blue sneakers. He had on those baggy shorts that reached his ankles, but it didn't look so bad on him. He topped his fit off with a surprisingly small chain, considering he was driving a Chrysler. Oh yeah, and he was fine as hell.

His friend walked out the passenger side, quietly flossin' on us peasants with a straight face. He was wearing a red and white varsity jacket, deep blue denims, and a slim, plain jane, leather watch. His eyes were covered by glossy, black Wayfarer Ray Bans but his biggest flex were his sneakers. The all black Jordan 6s. They'd been released back in '91 and were impossible to come across nowadays. The nigga had literal street gold on his feet and was fine, too, like his friend.

Of course, I wasn't the only one who noticed the latest guests. A flock of Latina chicks started runnin' towards the car. I could hear one of 'em say to durag, "Hola papi," as she layed her hand on his shoulder while another settled by sneakerhead's side. Still another chick from behind me yelled out, "Hold up y'all. Check Cam'ron out wit the sexy ass hooptie!"