“Ubar!” Dior, yelled from the other side of my bedroom door. “Ubar, it's already after seven!” My sister's voice in the morning was truly nerve-wrecking.
“Damn! Man, what'chu yellin' fo'?!” I shouted back, barely lifting my head from my pillow. “I heard you the first time, shit!”
“Then wake yo' ass up, then! You been late every day this week. You tell me to wake you up in the mornings, but when I do, you wonna talk shit...nigga!”
“Man, get away from my door,” I answered loud enough for her to hear, before I turned my head in the other direction, laid it down on my pillow and re-closed my eyes.
“Well, if you late again that's on you! Ubar!” she yelled at the same time I heard her stomp her foot.
Next, I heard my little nephew's voice, whining like always. “Mommy,” he griped, “are my Pop Tarts ready yet?”
“I'll check 'em for you in a minute,” she answered him.
“Man, I said get away from my door!” I hollered, irritated with the fact that I had to overhear their stupid small-talk about Pop Tarts.
“Nigga, fuck yo' door!” Dior shouted back. “Now wake yo' lazy ass up, Ubar! ...NOW!”
I threw the covers from my body and swung my legs over the edge of my bed, sitting up abruptly; maybe a little too abruptly. I instantly got light-headed and let my body fall back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. I rested one hand on my bare chest and the other on my stomach.
'Fuck,' I thought to myself. 'I wish I could get like two...nah three mo' hours of sleep.'
It was Friday and I knew just what awaited me in my first period English class...a fuckin' test. One that I hadn't bothered to study for or even think about all week long. Oh well, the damage had already been done. Could one more F really knock my GPA down any lower?
I sat up, shook my dreads and reached over to my night stand. I pulled open the drawer and grabbed two things: the remote to my CD player and my weed box. Man, I fuckin' love my weed box. It's a small metal lunch box; painted red, yellow, green and black, with white clouds all over it. I keep everything I need for smoking in my weed box. My Swishers, Phillies, purp, lighter, a few roaches, roach clips and even a half a stick of incense that I swear I have no idea how it got there.
I jabbed my remote at my CD player and mashed POWER. The radio immediately came on with the local DJ blabbing loudly. I pushed CD on the remote and let the multi-disk changer randomly choose one of the 10 CDs it held. As the music started up, I knew exactly which CD had been chosen; a mix-tape I'd borrowed(stolen) from my li'l nephew. The first track was Tupac, “I Ain't Mad At Cha”. Good, something nice and slow to get my morning started off right. I nodded my head along to the beat as I began to roll my first joint of the day.
“Ubar!” Dior nagged from the other side of the door. “Are you up?”
I heard her loud and clear but ignored her, reaching into my baggie and pulling out just enough dank for the gutted Swisher.
“Nigga I know you hear me! I hear yo' music playin'!”
“Then why you ask if I was woke, then?” I retorted, my eyes still glued to my work.
My door rattled as she tried my doorknob. Aha, I always lock my shit...she should know that by now.
“Yeah, you know you betta have yo' door locked!” she threatened me as I heard her footsteps go back up the hallway towards the living room.
I gave a short laugh as I licked my blunt shut. I snatched my lighter—shaped like a silver and black pistol—from my weed box. My grandpa, Papa Goose, gave it to me back when I turned 13. I lit the end of my blunt, puffing it once, twice, thrice. Aaah, shit was nice!
♪Money on my mind nigga, stacks of green! Money on my mind nigga, stack some cream!♪
My cell phone went off from the top of the nightstand. The ringtone was the chorus to one of my own songs; I recorded it like a month ago. I reached over and grabbed my cell. I had two new messages. One was an indicator letting me know that someone had mentioned me on Chirper.
Chirper is a social networking site identical to Twitter. But instead of 'Following' people, like on Twitter, on Chirper it's called 'Watching'. And instead of calling the 140-characters-or-less messages 'Tweets', on Chirper they're called 'Chirps'. But, other than that, the two sites are pretty much the same. You can Watch and Un-Watch folks, you can Chirp pictures, you can beg people to help you get new Watchers, you can waste your whole day lying about what you're doing; just like on Twitter. My username is @Schoolboy. I'm up to about 600 somethin' Watchers. Chirper is a fun time-waster, but I don't be on there all day like some folks.