- Regular lemonade:Capricorn, Virgo
- Pink lemonade:Leo, Gemini
- Strawberry lemonade:Taurus, Sagittarius
- Cherry lemonade:Pisces, Scorpio, Aquarius
- "Just give me the damn lemonade already":Cancer, Libra, Aries
- Single Ladies:"ladies! wave your hand in his face and tell him to put a ring on it!"
- Sorry:"put them hands high wave it in his face tell him bye boy I regret the night I put that ring on"
“Intuition: I tried to make a home out of you but doors lead to trap doors, a stairway leads to nothing. Unknown women wander the hallways at...”
What Beyonce has done with LEMONADE.
She showed the complexities of black women, she showed vulnerability from the very first song. “Pray You Catch Me” , is as soft and tender , it’s laying your heart out , all the questions you have asked yourself.“Hold Up “, the acknowledgement for your feelings and holding someone accountable ...
When life gives you Lemons (infidelity, racism, heartbreak, social injustice + inequality, motherhood, growth, rage + loss) you make LEMONADE.
- Beyoncé:I'm so much happier now that I'm dead. Technically missing. Soon to be presumed dead. Gone. And my lazy lying shitting oblivious husband will go to prison for my murder. Jay Z took my pride and my dignity and my hope and my money. He took and took from me until I no longer existed. That's murder. Let the punishment fit the crime. To fake a convincing murder you have to have discipline. You befriend a local idiot. Harvest the details of her humdrum life and cram her with stories about your husband's violent temper. Secretly create some money troubles: credit cards, perhaps online gambling. With the help of the unwitting, bump up your life insurance. Purchase getaway car. Craigslist. Generic. Cheap. Pay cash. Happy Anniversary. Wait for your clueless husband to start his day. Off he goes... and the clock is ticking. Meticulously stage your crime scene with just enough mistakes to raise the specter of doubt. You need to bleed. A lot. A lot, a lot. The head wound kind of bleed. A crime scene kind of bleed. You need to clean; poorly, like he would. Clean and bleed, bleed and clean. And leave a Little something behind: a fire in July? And because you're you, you don't stop there. You need a diary. Minimum three hundred entries on the Jay and Bey story. Start with the fairy-tale early days: those are true, and they're crucial. You want Jay and Bey to be likable. After that, you invent. The spending, the abuse, the fear, the threat of violence. And Jay thought he was the writer... burn it, just the right amount. Make sure the cops will find it. Finally, honor tradition with a very special treasure hunt. And if I get everything right, the world will hate Jay for killing his beautiful, pregnant wife. And after all the outrage, when I'm ready, I'll go out on the water with a handful of pills and a pocket full of stones. And when they find my body, they'll know: Jay Z dumped his beloved like garbage, and she floated past all the other abused, unwanted, inconvenient women. Then Jay will die too. Jay and Bey will be gone, but then we never really existed. Jay loved a girl I was pretending to be. "Cool girl". Men always use that, don't they? As their defining compliment: "She's a cool girl". Cool girl is hot. Cool girl is game. Cool girl is fun. Cool girl never gets angry at her man. She only smiles in a chagrined, loving manner. And then presents her mouth for fucking. She likes what he likes, so evidently he's a vinyl hipster who loves fetish Manga. If he likes girls gone wild, she's a mall babe who talks for football and endures buffalo wings at Hooters. When I met Jay Z I knew he wanted "Cool girl". And for him, I'll admit: I was willing to try. I wax-stripped my pussy raw. I drank canned beer watching Adam Sandler movies. I ate cold pizza and remained a size two. I blew him, semi-regularly. I lived in the moment. I was fucking game. I can't say I didn't enjoy some of it. Jay teased out in me things I didn't know existed. A lightness, a humor, an ease. But I made him smarter. Sharper. I inspired him to rise to my level. I forged the man of my dreams. We were happy pretending to be other people. We were the happiest couple we knew. And what's the point of being together if you're not the happiest? But Jay got lazy. He became someone I did not agree to marry. He actually expected me to love him unconditionally. Then he dragged me, filthy rich, to the navel of this great country and found himself a newer, younger, bouncier cool girl. You think I'd let him destroy me and end up happier than ever? No fucking way. He doesn't get to win. My cute, charming, salt-of-the-earth Brooklyn guy. He needed to learn. Grown-ups work for things. Grown-ups pay. Grown-ups suffer consequences.