I've been thinking...

I didn't like that Ray Cash song, then, and I don't like it now but I think it's interesting in a unintentional sort of way. It's a conversation piece. I've talked to myself about it, a dialogue in my own mind. Letting two voices slip from my lips even in the confines of my apt could make me sound imbalanced. My roomate could hear.

Ray Cash plays with the notion that one could be a pimp in one's one mind. It's tentative at first*: "I'm a pimp in my own fuckin' mind?" but gains momentum with repetition. "Yes, I'm a pimp in my own fuckin' mind." By the end, you hear his satisfied smirk, "Yes, I'm." No blank to fill.

So where does whoredom fit in, you know, hoeing? Could one be a whore in one's own mind? What would that feel like? Would it feel like someone? Would it start like Ray Cash's cerebral pimpin' does? Tentatively? Who draws the line between mind and matter? Thought and action? Hunts Point and the cortex's contents resting beneath red-bedazzled-newsboy-capped-frizzy-haired black girls. Brown, really, but you get the point.

* His surface braggadocio betrayed by the inesteem "Sex Appeal", aka every unwanted boy's vengeful daily affirmation, assuages or as KRS said "Real bad boys move in silence."