The first time I realized I was afraid of Jason Miller was the 9th grade. It was a cloudy Friday afternoon, and school had just let out. I had made arrangements to hang out with my new friend Jason that night, as he had big plans involving alcohol, gang members (friends of his), weapons (for sure) = good times. The bell rang and we went straight to the boy’s room to change out of those super neat PVI uni’s. I peaked over at Jason, who had gone with the purple Girbaud’s (seriously; mine were royal blue), floral rayon button down (Oaktree, Fair Oaks), and requisite Timbos. Fine ensemble, no doubt. Anyhow, I acknowledged his outfit with an approving “that’s phat”, then noticed that he was going for the Mennen Speed Stick in his duffle. “Word, I need some of that deeyo” I exclaimed, but Jason shook his head. As it turned out, this stick of deodorant had a hollow bottom, and was used to stash Jason’s extraordinarily large wad of cash. As he unscrewed the bottom half and pulled out the money, I remember being shook like a mug. I never asked where he got it, although in my gut I already knew.
Tip: its neat when those you think you know surprise you.
5 days and counting suckas.
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2 comments:
shot out to the varsity shop.
I was scared of Jason the other weekend when he kept trying to wrestle me at the restaurant, in the car, and at his house. It wasn't that I was scared I may get hurt but rather the look of retardation that consumed his face. The "scary stength" that I knew was to follow was the root of my fear. I don't think he was wearing his normal Secret deodorant that evening either. Maybe he needed the canister for some of those hundos the female german tourists stuff in his pants as he serves red wine.
I went looking for a pruple jeans today and came up dry.
Birdie motherfuckers
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