Episode 5 (Part 2)

See transcription below:

This project is a collection of thoughts transcribed and dictated by ivana renee and informed by the honest experiences of various homegirls in the city. In this project, “I” is for all of us.

My homegirl looks down at my phone and sees his name across my screen.

“Oh, that’s your “friend” who is having something? I would’ve respected you more if you told me you were being a hoe up front”, she jokes.

My homegirl actually never met BK Museum bae, but she would definitely recognize his name. I gave her the play by play of this nigga (and all niggas) from inception to ghosting, and I’ve showed her his Instagram before.

Presenting our homegirls with our nigga’s Instagram is a ritual. There’s really not a lot for them to say, but their response is so important.

There are two ways this happens, and it depends on our relationship with the homegirl. If it’s someone in our outer circle of homegirls, we simply search his name.

By the time we’re sharing his profile with outer circle homegirls, we’ve already been on his page at least 17 times, so his name is one of the first ones that pop up after we type the first letter of his handle.

We quickly scroll through the profile and present the best picture we can find. This method is sufficient for outer circle homegirls.

If we’re presenting his profile to inner circle homegirls, the method is the same up until finding the best picture. After finding the best picture, our homegirl grabs the phone from our hands and does her own analysis, sifting quickly through his page for any incriminating pictures, with special attention being given towards identifying girlfriends and/or kids.

“Who is this little boy?”

“That’s his nephew.”


If there are no glaring signs that the nigga is dub, she should respond in a higher pitched voice: “He’s cute”, maybe adding an additional shady comment like, “Looks like your type” to lighten things up.

There’s really not a lot for our homegirls to say here. We don’t need them being OD, like “DAMNNNNNN, this nigga is fine.”

“Chill out, sis”

But we also want some kind of verbal approval from them.

I look back at my phone, and he texted me that the function was moved from his homeboys crib to BK Museum bae’s rooftop; his homeboy looks he doesn’t have air conditioning.

I’m kidding.

Air conditioning, windows, and living rooms are luxuries in New York City apartments.

Anyways, he sends the address, and I respond “on the way” with the turnt up salsa dancer emoji.

I call an UberPool. The ride ends up being $9, and I don’t split the fare with my homegirl.

When pressing our homegirls to wing woman an event that they’re not particularly interested in, splitting a $9 ride with them is petty and rude.

If it was $15 or more, I’d have to be petty and rude though, so it all worked out.

The uber pulls ups, and we get out. I had been to his apartment before. It’s a rooftop building in Brooklyn (not the mixxy one in Bed-Stuy).

We get to the rooftop, do a scan of the party, and head towards the back table where the alcohol is. There is a jumbo bottle of Jack Daniels, 6 plastic cups, and no juice.

After buying alcohol, the extra $3 it costs for juice puts us over our budgetary constraints, so people pretty much never bring chasers to the function.

My homegirl and I take two cups, pour healthy shots into them, and position ourselves at the edge of the rooftop.

The party is mostly women. I’d say a 70/30 split.

Niggas really don’t want other people to be happy, so when throwing functions, they invite every shorty in their phone and their three best homeboys to the crib and call it a “kickback”.

I peep him across the roof. He’s relatively centered in a group of three shorties and has his arm around one shorty’s shoulders while he’s talking with the group.

I take a sip of Jack Daniels and immediately zoom in on the girl that he has his arm around.

She’s cute.

As I’m staring, this other nigga that I may or may not have had relations with comes up to me and my homegirl.

“Who invited the gross sisters?” he laughs.

This nigga.

We did that “talking” thing a while back, but he ended up having a whole girl. Allegedly, they were on and off.

Allegedly, Dro from Insecure is in an open marriage.

We fell off after a few months, and we didn’t see each other for a while. But we had relatively interconnected friend groups, so we figured out how to manage our interactions with no tension.

Homegirls in the city don’t really have the bandwidth to beef — us trying to avoid one person could ostracize us socially. We have to get played and get over it because the nigga will be at the day party on Saturday, probably in another shorty’s face.

After I started talking to BK Museum bae, I peeped that they knew each other.

Can you be a homie hopper if they weren’t homies when you originally hopped, or if you weren’t aware of their homie status until after you hopped, or if you’re not interested in the original homie anymore? What kind of homies are they anyway?

Whatever the case, it’s not my responsibility to uphold the bro code. None of these niggas are my friends anyways, and if the tables were turned, I’m sure they’d give me little to no consideration.

These niggas will try to bag your cousin at your birthday brunch, but I’m sleep.

We chat him up for a while, and he gives me and my homegirl a shot from his Hennessy bottle.

At house functions, the only way niggas can visually flex is with a bottle in their hands, so they self-manage their handle of Hennessy all night, distributing shots to personally identified shorties.

As I’m taking the shot out of throwback bae’s bottle, BK Museum bae comes up to us. He daps up throwback bae. I pass the bottle to my homegirl and wait for them to finish up their banter.

It’s something like “I’m tryna get like you, dog”. “No, I’m tryna get like you, dog”.

Niggas get mad when homegirls gas each other on Instagram with the “yasssss” and “heart eye emoji” comments, but niggas do the same thing.

“I’m tryna get like you” is basically “yassss, king” for niggas.

We hug, and I introduce him to my homegirl.

They greet each other, and he begins, “The neighbors are trippin. I’m about to get these niggas off my roof, but y’all should go downstairs to my apartment. A couple people are staying to drink a little more and kick it.”

He walks away, and I consult with my homegirl.

She’s looking tired, and I can tell that there’s no one at the party she’s interested in. She’s really just there to hold me down.

“I want to stay, but we only have to stay for like 40 minutes. Then, I’ll decide what I’m doing.”

“Damn, Hoesha. You really come alive in the night time, huh”, she responds.

We head downstairs. As we’re walking from the roof, I turn around, and I see the girl he had his arms around again.

I don’t see her friends anymore, but she’s picking up the used cups and throwing them in a trash bag.
Does this girl wash restaurant dishes after she goes out to dinner? I doubt it.
Confirmed: that’s his bitch.


My homegirl and I look at each other in unspoken agreement. We head downstairs to his apartment with full alertness.

“Niggas are sloppy,” my homegirl begins, “How is he going to invite you to his crib and his bitch is here. I mean, she’s not a bitch, but still, we can jump her if you want.”

“Jump her? Shut up, nigga. Since when are you jumping shorties?” I respond.

“You’re right. I can’t be ruining my brand for you anyway” she chuckles. “Anyways, we have to be more thoughtful about this. I mean, we don’t know for sure that this is his girl. She might just be a shorty who likes cleaning up. Or it could be one of his roommate’s girls. Or maybe she’s just a grown looking 17 year old from Canarsie, looking for mentorship. And he’s keeping her off the streets.”

We both laugh, but I feel myself getting upset. Not in a “I’m about to cry over this nigga” kind of way, but in a “you chose this helpful ass relatively cute shorty” over me.

I remind myself that she probably has the personality of Taylor Swift, and that makes me feel better for a while.
Bardi Gang.

He opens the door, and we come inside. We’re drinking on the couch for a while, and he sits next to me.

“You tryna smoke? We just rolled up in my room,” he says.

I still haven’t seen shorty who was cleaning up, maybe she is a troubled youth from Canarsie.

My homegirl and I follow him to his room. It’s me and my homegirl, two other shorties, and his two roommates in the room. The two other shorties seem wrapped up in the roommates, so I’m feeling okay about them.

There are still about 10 or so people in the living room kicking it among themselves.

At house parties, the smoke room is pretty exclusive, special guests only.

We smoke, and he’s telling my homegirl and I a story of how lit he was at Caribana last year. We’re all laughing, and he’s holding my thigh as he’s talking.

As we’re finishing smoking, the clean up shorty taps on the door. She has a bodega sandwich, a blue Gatorade, and a Smart Water in hand. She shuffles in and picks up a bag in his room. She hands him the Gatorade and walks out.

“Weird,” I think to myself, but I guess she’s out.

I turn to my homegirl, “I’m going to give him a few more minutes, but I wouldn’t be opposed to spending the night.”

“Okay, I’ll call my Uber in 10 minutes, so you have until then to feel things out.”

A few minutes later, clean up shorty walks back in with her bag, except now she has sweat pants and a T-shirt on.

The facts are: This girl just cleaned his roof, hand delivered him blue Gatorade, and cranked an outfit change.

She’s the clean up crew, the catering crew, and the entertainment.

Mood: Why can’t niggas leave me alone?

This is a collection of stories from homegirls who are honest with themselves, each other, and the world. In this project, “I” is for all of us.

ivana renee