At this point in my life I live Aretha more than Catfish Wilkerson. The mere mention of her name sends the same feeling of euphoria to my brain that eating bourbon chicken and sweet dinner rolls from Golden Corral provides but not today.

Just when I was about to cream with delight over paparazzi pictures of the queen being available for my pauper ass to download I took a look at her double hairlines. The gift store at the Knowles Compound had a lot sell on wig caps last month so there is no excuse. I feel fucking betrayed. I could’ve been in love by now. Where’s Obama?

This is like standing behind somebody in a checkout line with their weave tracks all exposed for the world to see. All types of uncomfortable.

You better hold that bag, Catfish.