JuneTeenth

Dis ghetto queen outchea lookin’ like she just got evicted from da welfare office wit’ a fresh pack of Newports and a half-eaten Popeyes box under her arm. Hair look like it lost a fight wit’ a hurricane and some dollar store rollers—half in, half out, wit’ dat one rogue edge piece doin’ da most. She got on dem knockoff Gucci slides wit’ da socks pulled up to her knees, a crop top sayin’ “Baby Daddy #4” sparklin’ in rhinestones, and dem acrylic nails so long she can scratch her ass from da front seat of her rusted-out Impala on 22s dat still got da temp tags from 2017. She standin’ dere, one hand on her hip, lips poked out like she ‘bout to fight da cashier at Family Dollar over a $2 overcharge, yellin’ “AYO WHERE MY BABY DADDY AT?!” while her three kids runnin’ wild, one eatin’ dirt, one twerkin’ to Future on a cracked phone, and da youngest already got a Bluetooth speaker in his diaper. Classic hood royalty—broke but boujee, loud but wrong, and always ready to “put somebody on blast” on Facebook Live while her EBT card decline at da gas station. Happy Juneteenth 😂