not how i want it

i plead with my old lady to put down the gun. i say, sweet pea, if you don't kill me, which a twenty-two will not do, i am going to fuck you up. But she is steady. when a woman decides she's going to kill you, she likes it when you beg. She wants you to beg. Women sometimes say that they love a strong man who can cry. But they are lying. They want a man that will get them money. That's why I'm pleading. Because i'm like any other mutherfucker. I just want my shit to be cool. I want it tight. So when this old lady licks her loose lips and demands new shoes and baseboards and babies i automatically swing around for the exit. But she's saying all this crazy shit with this single action sprouting and it hits me, 'she's telling you she loves you!" but i've never been right about anything. she squeezes the trigger and of everything she's fucked up in our three glorious, soaked weeks of romance, killing me isn't one of them.