There are certain things you should know, if only because I think I want you to. Maybe just in the interest of fairness, whatever that means. Most but not all of this—what follows—is true. But I'm not even going to pretend that I want you to know where and when we cross over into fiction. Or back into nonfiction. If we ever were there to begin with.
I often lie simply because I'm afraid of what might happen if I were to tell you the truth. Afraid of what might happen to me, obviously; because if I really gave a shit about you, well...
It should go without saying that the contents of Unwell. are mine, mine, mine, mine, copyright me n' all that shit, unless attributed to other sources, in which case they're theirs. Don't come crying to me about my revealing things you thought were personal and secret and all that—unless y'all specifically requested me to keep those things personal and secret and all that. In that case...hey, sorry, my bad. Y'dig? Holla atcha boy and I'll see what I can do to make it right.
Do not fuck wit me and then expect me to take the high road when it comes to giving my side of the story, sometimes repeatedly. I can't state this absolutely, knaamean, but basically I'm tired o' that shit. I take my time coming to terms with things, and I'll stop talking about it when I stop talking about it. Period. Say what? Well, fuck y'all, 'cause I sho' ain't extended no invitation fo' y'all to be here.
Connect the dots. Really. I'm not that good a liar, and everything really does make sense somewhere along the way. I just don't know if I can be counted on to tell you when. If y'all's down with that, well damn, negro, sit yo ass down, take a load off yo mind. If not, don't let the door hit you on your way out.