I know we don’t get to talk often, Thug Life – can I call you Thug Life? I don’t actually know your names, silly woman that I am, although you’re usually passed out in a puddle of your own bodily fluids asleep while I’m at work and when I’m trying to sleep you are drunk, belligerent and slobbering such night owls – but you should know I think about you often. I wonder if your mother knows you talk like a bunch of half-raised ignorant fools. I wonder if your father knows that you’ve done some interesting redecoration on the townhouse (which he so generously purchased for you and your friends) vis a vis holes in the interior walls and some planks artfully ripped out of your patio fence. Frankly, Thug Life, it’s hard not to think about you sometimes and wonder how long it will be before you are a) carted off to prison with your Thug Life homies and shorties and hoopdies, b) rendered permanently comatose from either an accident involving one of the presumably perfectly legal substances you and your friends always seem to be on or from one of your customers friends impatience as explored through weaponry, or c) properly parented and therefore locked in an attic until you are 43 years old.
You know, Thug Life, I’m going to go out on a limb and say it. I think you’re just sad. Sad inside. Your man-pris, your sideways ball cap, your lack of shirtwear, your poor vocabulary and serious dearth of employment….it’s a cry for help and I understand. Right now, Thug Life, I’m sitting in my house, the windows open so I can enjoy the weather, and I can hear you. I hear you screaming, “FUCK YOU B*TCH” and “WHATTHEF*CK IS YOURFU*KINGPROBLEM A$SHOLE?”
What you really mean is, “I need a hug.”
I know, Thug Life, you’ve never noticed me over here in my townhouse. You’ve probably never noticed that I am gainfully employed and therefore have to be conscious at 6 am, so that’s probably why you don’t mind when your cheerful parties spill out into the communal parking lot at 3 am. I’ve noticed that you and your friends often take this time to firmly lob your empty beer bottles into the metal dumpster, and I can’t help but muse that if only your fathers had been there to play catch with you, you wouldn’t be engaging in this destructive and aggressive display.
A word to your ladyfriends, Thug Life. I’m so very sorry some of them are so poverty-stricken. Perhaps if they had jobs or parents who loved them, they would not have to wear their little sisters’ shorts and tank tops. The poor young ladies can’t even afford undergarments to protect my eyes their modesty. And I don’t mean to be rude, but you might want to mention to the blonde one that smoking is really aging her.
I’d love to talk to you about this, Thug Life. I know your one little friend couldn’t hear me very well on account of he’s deaf. It’s so brave of him to carry on playing the radio in his car as if nothing is wrong with his hearing, but I know the truth. I know nobody would really like to listen to music that loud with lyrics that angry. I don’t think you’re ready to hear me, Thug Life. I don’t think you’re there yet. I think I know what you’d say – “SHUT UP YOU F*CKING B*TCH F*CKITY F*CK MOTHERF*CKYF*CK.” But you really mean, “The child in me cries out in pain to the adult in you and I pray for the guidance that I so desperately need in this stressful time of my life.”
I worry for you, Thug Life. You seem to be going through life with your hat on sideways and pulled so far onto your head you can’t see and your pants halfway down your ass and no clue that life is going to shuck the living daylights out of you one day. I’m here for you, Thug Life. I’m happy to call the po po on you lend a shoulder to cry on. All you have to do is holler.
The Sleep-Deprived Crotchety Old Lady Across the Parking Lot