I woke up with thoughts of loss, but my balls are gaining weight. Yin must Yang.
If corona takes another month,
many employees shall be their own bosses.
Have you found a new skill that might help you abolish your 8-5 job?
I heard it’s an honorable thing to put a ring on it before you shove a D in it. But as for me and my balls, we have to be sure that these rivers are navigable before the sail leaves the banks.
It’s a strange world,
Be one step ahead of Karma.
I overheard my neighbour asking Jesus to come now. People are here trying to kill the son of God twice.
I don’t talk about ’em balls to get girls, neither do I talk about them to entice women. I talk about balls because I own them.
I’ve held them in my palms, quizzed them, and gauged their pulse rate. We’ve held in-depth convos, disagreed, and made a truce.
I love them because they’re selfless. They never ask me why they never go in when the girls they seduced without intent show up. They are okay about staying outside. Even when they serve ’em proteins, they don’t ask to show a face.
They’re not like your MP who prints her face on Sanitary towels. Trust me, they don’t need cheap publicity.
They’re not like your woman who spreads her legs for you but severe your reputation in post-coital evaluation.
They’re not like your best friend who’ll spread your name after bailing you out.
And they’re not like your BFF who never shows up when you need them to.
Balls are philanthropists in small sacs. They give and give but never ask for much.
You talk about your Mercedes, or V8, or Subaru, or your wife. Let me talk about the marbles.
They have survived me.
Don’t be worried when I shed tears. Be worried when I stop.
When I shed tears, it means I’m dealing with it like a man should. when I stop it means my system is broken, it can shut down any minute.
#MindMyMind #M3Movement #MentalHealthKE #MHAW2017 #MentalHealthAwarenessWeek2017
The place we used to hide in is no longer a secret, they have discovered it and known the secrets it kept. Our beautiful moments flew when adulterous wives brought their men in; the charcoal notes stood the test of time—to tell tales of our childhood indulgence.
My son, in this life compete with fellow men, don’t ever try to compete with a woman with a pretty face and a big ass, for in the labyrinth of her mons are shortcuts to the finish line
I scratched my Agak’s apple
My voice box got torn
Still, the bandages won’t hold water
Just crimson seeds of self-hate
So I cry,
Somebody save me
From the brutal I