Because it's, well was my birthday, and I'm in a great mood (and to somewhat make up for the long time I was gone 😭) I decided to update twice for you guys. 😍❤️
Enjoy! 😘
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DeVanté
My nurse and a woman wearing casual clothes walked into my room.
"Donald, this is the physical therapist we got for you," the nurse said.
The woman smiled, "Hi, I'm Miss London."
She held her hand out for me to shake. I looked down at her hand and mugged it.
"Okay...," she said awkwardly before turning to the nurse. "I believe I can handle it from here."
The nurse nodded her head before walking out.
"Mr. DeGrate, how are you feeling?" I rolled my eyes at the woman's dumb question.
I gave her a look.
Really? That's the question you ask me? How am I feeling? Oh, I feel wonderful, great, marvelous, magnificent. This cast on my arm feels amazing. My busted lip feels like heaven. This headache I have is making me feel like I'm on cloud nine. Life is just so wonderful right now, everything is literally perfection. I might as well be a blonde headed broad with a cute red car and a chihuahua in Beverly Hills, because life is seriously just that damn worth living at the moment. I couldn't possibly feel better.
Bitch, I feel like Rodney King.
"I'm in a fucking hospital. I just got robbed and pistol whipped in my own house when all I wanted was some damn sleep. Am I suppose to feel good?"
"I understand. Look, I know you're-"
"You don't know shit," I cut her off.
I hate when people act like they know what I'm going through, they don't know a damn thing about me or my problems.
"How long I got to stay in here?" I asked her.
"About two weeks or so. That arm is fractured pretty badly."
I sighed.
"I think with some medication and a few workouts, your arm will be better in no time."
And I think with some breath mints and a few sessions of teeth brushing, your breath will still be funky 'cause ain't enough breath mints or toothpaste in the world to revive the freshness of that mouth.
"What's your name again?" I asked her.
"Miss London."
She ain't married and I can smell why, her mouth needs Jesus.
"Well, Miss London, I don't feel like dealing with you right now so can you just leave me alone?"
She sighed and put her business card on the table beside me. "Just let me know when you're ready to start treatment," she said before leaving.
I looked at the TV. This pain in my arm is killing me, I feel like shit.
"Miss London was lowkey fine."
"Dalvin, why are you still here!?" I yelled in annoyance.
"Cause Mama told me to stay, so shut up!"
"I swear I can't stand yo ugly ass," I mugged him.
"Well nigga, sit the fuck down and take several seats!"
I rolled my eyes and used my left hand to message my forehead.
"I love you though, bro."
"Fuck you, pussy," I flipped him off.
"Speaking of pussy. Just out of curiosity, did that little girl ever give you any?"
Why was that any of his business?
"Morgan is not a little girl. She is a grown ass eighteen year old, bitch."
He looked taken back by the fact that I called him "bitch."
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"I was just asking a question."
"Stop asking shit and leave me alone," I said.
"Are y'all even still together?"
I gave him that look I give when I done already told him to leave me alone and he act like he didn't hear me.
He put his hands up in defense, "My fucking bad, damn!"
Why was it necessary to yell? Why? 🙄
And that's why I don't like Dalvin, he so unnecessary. The shit he do is just uncalled for and childish like dude, chill the fuck out. Another reason I don't like his ass is because he act like he can never just stay in his own lane and mind his own damn business, always sticking his nose in mine.
Why did Dalvin bring up Morgan anyway?
I haven't seen or heard from that girl in two weeks. She don't realize how bad she's treating me either. Yeah, I may have been a little crazy, but she can't say I didn't try for her. I took my pills and even went to therapy a few times, just for her. I love her, I ain't never loved no other girl before. She can call me sometimes, just to simply make sure I'm alive, but she ignores me and act like we never had something. I guess I'm not of importance though, so fuck her.
I let out a long, loud sigh.
People wonder why I'm the way I am, like I can help it. I have what's called a fucking disorder, I can't help that shit. What's the point in trying to help myself anyway when nobody gives a fuck about me? Exactly, there is no point.
