"But, as for me, I'm getting out!" Dr. Flo’s final yell startled Milo awake, and he sleepily lifted his head, taking care to avoid bopping his noggin on the metal frame of his bunk as he had done too many times before. Can't afford to lose any more brain cells while I'm stuck in this crap hole, Milo thought as he lifted himself up, got to his feet, and tiptoed gingerly to the front of his cell.
I am a 25-year-old black male sitting in a Strip Club in Atlanta, GA. The calendar says October 25th,1994. I’m high on Prozac and Vodka so I’m oblivious to time. I’m about to get fired from the church I’m pastoring but my attention is focused on the beautiful stripper in front of me with muscles in all the right places, like I’m really looking at muscles right now.
Winded yet invigorated, Dr. Flo rounded the corner and hauled ass down the pavement in the near empty city. Spotting a large, green dumpster littered with spray paint tags, she glanced quickly over her shoulder before coming to a full stop and plopping down out of sight for a rest. Sweet escape, Dr. Flo thought, as a slow, mischievous grin slid across her face.
"Fuck that noise!” I hear Dr. Flo yell from the corner of my mind. I can feel her wrestling around in there, pounding fists in my chest, and then grasping, clutching at my throat. "I'm gonna say it loud and proud whether you like it or not," Flo utters between clenched teeth, “And I'm gonna say it with authority, damn it! "
