A Note For Barbara Fleri, In Case She Ever Googles Herself

Barbara Fleri! Yo Wassup Bitch?

How come you never come round no more, baby? Shiiiiit. It's been like a year or whatever since you done left the crib to go paint your seashells 'n shit. Left the baby with Hi Top, and your baby daddy Slo-Mo keeps coming round, wanting to know where Barbara Fleri is 'n shit. Keep saying you owe him money from that rock you stole out of his glove compartment and smoked before leaving town. He mad.

The cops don't come round no more looking for you, so you can come back. They can't prove it was you done stabbed that bartender at the OTB cuz the security video too fuzzy. I went to the post office and took down the Barbara Fleri wanted poster too. So come back.

Momma got your room nice. She kicked the pile of diapers into the closet and shut the window to keep out the crows. She said you can keep painting your starfish 'n shit all you want and she won't let her boyfriends bother you. She still mad you dated Crookie and T-Wild, but she miss you.

Me, I ain't mad at ya. I understand you had to bounce after sleeping with your own brother. But I ain't messed up from it– I still love you, family-style. That's on the real. Come back, Barbara Fleri.

–Tommy



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