deckthehallswithlotsofstark:

Read Ch. 1 of Da Fault up in Our Stars:

Late up in tha winta of mah seventeenth year, mah mutha decided I was pissed off, presumably cuz I rarely left tha house, spent like a shitload of time up in bed, read tha same stupid-ass book over n’ over, ate infrequently, n’ devoted like a bit of mah abundant free time ta thankin bout dirtnap.

Whenever yo ass read a cizzla booklet and joint and whatever, they always list depression among tha side effectz of cizzler. But, up in fact, depression aint a side effec’ of cizzler. Depression be a side effec’ of dying. (Cizzla be also a side effec’ of dyin fo’ realz. Almost everythang is, straight-up.) But mah mom believed I required treatment, so her ass took mah crazy ass ta peep mah Regular Doctor Jim, whoz ass agreed dat I was veritably swimmin up in a paralyzin n’ straight-up clinical depression, n’ dat therefore mah medz should be adjusted n’ also I should attend a weekly Support Group.

This Support Group featured a rotatin cast of charactas up in various statez of tumor-driven unwellness. Why did tha cast rotate, biatch? A side effec’ of dying.

Da Support Group, of course, was depressin as hell. It kicked it wit every last muthafuckin Wednesdizzle up in tha basement of a stone-walled Episcopal church shaped like a cross. Our thugged-out asses all sat up in a circle muthafuckin right up in tha middle of tha cross, where tha two boardz would have met, where tha heart of Jizzy would have been.

I noticed dis cuz Patrick, tha Support Group Leader n’ only thug over eighteen up in tha room, talked bout tha heart of Jizzy every last muthafuckin freakin meeting, all bout how tha fuck we, as lil’ cizzla survivors, was chillin muthafuckin right up in Christz straight-up sacred heart n’ whatever.

Guess what, muthafucka! So herez how tha fuck it went up in Doggz heart: Da six and seven and ten of our asses strutted/wheeled in, grazed at a decrepit selection of dem scooby snacks n’ lemonade, sat down up in tha Circle of Trust, n’ listened ta Patrick recount fo’ tha thousandth time his fuckin lil’ depressingly miserable thuglife story—how he had cizzla up in his balls n’ they thought he was goin ta die but he didn’t die n’ now here he is, a full-grown adult up in a church basement up in tha 137th nicest hood up in America, divorced, buggin up on vizzle game, mostly playaless, ekin up a meager livin by exploitin his cizzlertastic past, slowly hittin dat shizzle his way toward a masterz degree dat aint gonna improve his game prospects, waiting, as our crazy-ass asses all do, fo’ tha sword of Damoclez ta give his ass tha relief dat he escaped lo em nuff muthafuckin years ago when cizzla took both of his nutz but spared what tha fuck only da most thugged-out generous funk would call his fuckin life.

AND YOU TOO MIGHT BE SO LUCKY!

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