“Men ain’t sh$t! Men are FCKING liars!”

Updated: Apr 7





He was such a FCKING liar. Everyone loved him but no one believed him. Mami y Papi didn’t believe him most of the time. My sisters and I never believed him. The women he bedded definitely didn’t believe him—although they ate that shit up. Apparently good D will make a believer out of all kinds of women or at least that was the rumor—that the D was bomb. None of us believed a word that came out of his mouth but we certainly entertained the stories. Storytelling is definitely a family gift. He was so convincing. Yo! He convinced an entire school that he was auditioning for Menudo and that they would be coming to our house to pick him up. (More on this story later) It was that grill of his. That fcking smile. That crooked eye. His presence melted panties. I am crying even writing that. (I know he is watching me write right now saying—“oh word sis, that’s how you gonna do me?” Everyone hated me, but they loved Fabio.


When were we taught that “men ain’t shit”? I will come back to this.


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My grandfather was also a FCKING liar. Maybe that’s where he and all the men in my family inherited the gift of deceit and mental manipulation. My grandfather was a quiet elegant man. Dress shirts pressed, slacks ironed with pleats, clean T-shirt’s worn underneath and shoes always polished. He barely said anything to me that wasn’t in the form of how could I serve him. He lived with us for a spell in the house on Woodhaven Court in Queens. I don’t remember what he did for work I will have to ask papi but I remember one day he entered the house through the back door. Our kitchen was in the basement. Abuelo had the habit of doing the same thing everyday. He would enter, walk to the stove, lift the covers off the pots to see what was left for dinner and then would go to to his room to change his clothes. This particular day he entered as he always did, wearing his tan colored trench coat he walked over to the stove and lifted each cover on the stove to find that every pot was cleaned and left empty. I left them on the stove like that. Fue de maldad. I was laughing my ass off from the top of the stares where I was watching him from.

I never felt that connection with abuelo like my siblings kids and court and Elena have with papi. I never sat on his lap. We never played games. We definitely weren’t homies like Court and dad were/are. He never hugged me. We never had talks about life.

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Maybe lying is just in their DNA?


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My grandpa raised a bunch of liars.

Versión Edited 4/7/20 @ 9:40PM EST Harlem House


(Unfinished, excerpt from IDGAF)

Readers, share with me your thoughts, reflections or quotes. Thank you for reading and sharing.


I love you.

Alicia