Moving to New York meant I had to sacrifice my most favorite pasttime: driving around bumping terrible/amazing hip-hop and rap music. Since I bought my first CD single in the sixth grade - that's right, it was "Mo Money, Mo Problems" by Notorious B.I.G. featuring Ma$e (OMG, remember him?!?) and Puff Daddy - I've been obsessed with hip-hop and rap. I may as well come out of the closet now: I have a notoriously flippant taste in music and an inborn weakness for a bangin' beat, and I couldn't be prouder. There's nothing quite like cranking up the bass on some Beyoncé, Weezy, Gorilla Zoe or Jay-Z, putting the windows down, bouncing around like a fool and pretending like I can actually sing or, worse, rap.
No driving also means no radio listening, which is equally sad. I'm not hip on all the new bad music, y'all. I don't get my daily dose of T-Pain, Soulja Boy Tell 'Em, The-Dream or Jamie Foxx; I do, however, listen to Pandora at work, and it was there that I recently heard, well, a song by Trey Songz. Question: what exactly have I been doing with my life up until this point? Just now, I almost typed "hard" instead of "heard," which would have been an incredibly appropriate Freudian slip.
He just released a new album called "Ready," and I'm listening to it live as I blog. I feel inspired by the tracklist, which is, um, somewhat suggestive, so in honor of all the brilliant lyricists who came before him and all those who will come after - innuendo completely intended - I present Trey Songz: A Reverse NYC Mad Lib.
So last night I went to my friends' new apartment for her housewarming party, where she served pink Panty Droppas. We were talking about her new building, and she was like, "Yeah, it's so weird! Before I even had my own mailbox I realized that all my Neighbors Know My Name. Creepy."
"Yeah," I agreed. "But not as creepy as this one time when my upstairs neighbor came up to me and said, 'I Invented Sex. Holla If You Need Me.' Ha, like anyone who smokes that much could invent anything, much less sex."
She laughed a little under her breath. "Weird. But Does He Do It right? That's what really counts."
I shrugged and took a sip of my drink. I decided I needed a cig and made my way downstairs to the sidewalk. Outside, I met a charming British man, also smoking, who told me he was an astrophysicist. Or something.
"I Need A Girl," he daringly confessed. "You know, one who can share in my Jupiter Love."
"Um, what does that mean exactly?" I asked.
"You know, that One Love," he clarified. "I'm already a Successful lover of planets. I spend all my time, quite literally, in the clouds. I just want to meet someone who makes me want to be right where I am, here on Earth."
"Be Where You Are?" I asked.
"Yeah, you know. Just right here."
Despite the obvious fact that he was a bit odd, I fell for him. Our eyes locked and I was Ready To Make Luv. I forgot all my past Love Lost, and decided right then that in honor of his lust for the cosmos, we would have Black Roses at our wedding.
"I have to tell you something," I confessed.
"I'm an ear, nose and throat doctor. Not exactly romantic for someone who studies Jupiter for a living."
He smiled, took my face in his hands and said, "That's fine, dear. As long as you stay on Yo Side Of The Bed."
I smiled. "OK then. Say Aah!"
As he opened his mouth to kiss me, a guy drove by in a Cadillac and a huge puddle splashed onto my party dress. "Hollalude!" He shouted.
Ugh. What is it with strangers in New York saying holla?! I wondered.
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