All I can think about is us sitting in my big house on the golf course. I was fifteen, you were fourteen. We were on my daddy's computer. Writing.

What were we writing? We were writing about the bitch who felt the need to wear Malcolm X clothing. Do you not remember her at all? I can't remember her name. She basically reminded me of...she was white, of course. She lived next to the...oh, my God.

"You have to tell me who she was. I can almost remember," you say.

"God, who was she?" I said. We wrote an entire editorial prior to being involved with the paper. We had to remember.

"T. W." You and your fucking memory, bitch.

"Who was her ex?" I asked, remembering how pissed we were, how hyped up we were on coffee, that she was wearing culturally incendiary clothing, and had no idea what she was fronting.

We couldn't stand her and her fucking anti-cracker clothing, when she did nothing to support the anti-cracker cause. In fact, she didn't even know who the fuck Malcolm X was.

"Aw, yeah. I have a vague recollection. I fucked with a lot of people."

You always were kind of a bitch.

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