N I N E

Heart Knock Life

Storie Chanel Stone.
   College student, radio and television producer, aspiring artist and some mo' shit.

I stand strongly at 5'5, brown eyes and yes thick in the thighs.  Allow me to elaborate; my measurements are 36-28-43. So yeah God blessed me. I'm the closest thing to hot caramel you gone find on the west side of Chicago and no I'm neither cocky nor conceited in the least bit. But hey in the words of Usher, "when you got it you got it." I'm more humble than anything though and have no issue saluting a bad bitch when I see one.

But bad bitches come a dime a dozen so, whatever.

Anyway, I'm 21 going on 61. I've always been told I was wise beyond my years and as long as I could remember I wanted my man to be like a modern day 2pac.

God rest his soul, that man was fine! But it wasn't just his physical that made my middle tickle. It was the power he possessed, the conviction of his words, the allegory of his cave that made me want him all to myself.

He is what my Mom would call an educated hood nigga, a thug with an extensive vocabulary, a revolutionary if you will. I felt Beyoncé when she told the world "If his status aint hood, I aint checking for him, got to be street if you looking at me."Every good girl needs a little thug in they life.

I'm a woman with male strength, a male thought process and male assertion. I honestly feel like to title myself "queen" would be demeaning, it's almost like I'm not capable of being king if I allowed that signature, so I won't.

I was raised on 13th and Independence in the pissy, crack infested court way building the rest of my family had traveled the levels of maturation in. But from Thanksgiving of 1990 until this very day my Momma knew I would be nothing like the rest of my family; and I made sure of it.

Momma named me Storie because she knew I had some shit the world needed to hear. My father, Tiorie Stone was taken from me by a bunch of weak niggas who wouldn't see his hands. Daddy was a Kingpin running majority of the west side pushing the most potent of drugs a fiend could get their hands on. He was living large & niggas hated it. Crab ass niggas took him out & left him stankin' in his  1998 olive green MonteCarlo everyone on the block knew.

He was found in front of our house while Tupac's All Eyez On Me played repeatedly until someone notified my family.

After the funeral & realizing shit would never be the same school was my getaway. I lost myself in my education so that I wouldn't have to think about the fact that I didn't have a daddy and barely had a Momma. My cool wouldn't allow me to trip, too much fucking pride.

Just like my daddy.

My aunt Milan, who I believe is my real mother, took me under her wing as a shorty and showed me the ropes of life in her own way. I've seen more fights, than pay –per-view can show. My aunt was a goon, niggas and bitches knew when "the chief" was coming whoever was still around was getting knocked the fuck out! No talking! That's how I learned to fight. She would make my eldest cousin Trinie beat my ass until I fought back.

One day, we were in my great grandmother's house and the bitch kept picking with me and my aunt Milan had a rule "1st person come crying getting they ass whooped." Well nobody wants an ass whooping, so guess what?

She had hit me too hard one day and I got tired of it. I went in the kitchen and found my great grandmothers broom with the authentic wood handle and proceeded to make her eat that bitch! From that day to this one she doesn't fuck with me.

My aunt made sure she schooled me on how to dress. So before I even got to high school, I was beyond fly. I've been a Nike Air max head since I was 10. But  Daddy kept me in nothing but the best.