If I Ruled The World




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In every ghetto there is one who stands out above the rest. In this unforgettable novel, her name is Harlem. Harlem Lee Jones is a twenty-six year old bad-ass who owns her own home, her own car, her own business and she will tell you in two seconds flat that no, some drug dealer didn't front her the money for it. Nor did she have to sell herself to get what she's got. Harlem came up the hard way but she ended up inheriting a modest fortune, allowing her to open her own business. Then into her life comes an unexpected and unlikely love, a street bred charmer named York. Not your typical hood, York is out for her heart. But when tragedy strikes, Harlem knows that as a survivor, she must be the one to decide her own destiny. "The best urban tale since The Coldest Winter Ever." -Erykah Badu, Grammy Award-Winner


I'm a fine ass young black female and I have everything I need. Having everything I want is a bonus, an extra perk in this venture called life. I have a three bedroom house, an automobile that's in mint condition, a little extra spending cash, nice jewelry that includes a Movado watch and a five carat tennis bracelet, a jazzy wardrobe with a few name brand clothes thrown in the mix, and just all around nice shit. Hell, I should have it going on. I do own my own business, a music/bookstore. And before you get it twisted, no, some drug slinging nigga didn't front me the money for it, or, should I say, invest in it. It's all me. I'm your average inner city princess who made an early come up in life. I'm twenty-six years old and I've got things that fifty year old women have yet to obtain. But I know, I know, there are plenty of women my age who have what I got and then some. So what makes me so special you're probably thinking? The thing is, I ain't never had to give up no pussy to get what I got! I handle mine, take care of business every day and count money all night. On those nights I can't get to sleep, fuck sheep. I count dollars. Some people want to die in their sleep. Some people want to die fucking. Me, Harlem Lee Jones, I want to die rich, or, like that rap superstar 50 Cent says, die tryin'. Today, while I was out browsing at some of the shops in the Short North area, I paid a psychic for a five dollar reading. She told me that I was going to live to be eighty-nine years old. I'm only twenty-six now so I suppose I should be ecstatic. But no, not me. My comment to her prediction was: What the fuck am I supposed to do for the next sixty-three years?

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