Homie isn't shyte talking. It's a term of endearment.
For instance, I used to have this cat named Kit Kat. She lived with me and my parents when I was in grad school. After I moved out, Kit Kat came with me. I wouldn't have had it any other way because she I knew was my cat despite the four other people lived under my parents' roof. It's not really fair to say she was my cat, though. You don't pick cats; they pick you. And she definitely picked me. You know how I knew?
I had an open space between the door to my room and the roof above it. It was about a foot or so deep...just big enough for a house cat to get through. Every night, I would close the door to my room so I could read for school and complete whatever essay I was assigned in peace. I was an English major, you see, so I had copious amounts of writing. Every night, that cat would scale the side of my door frame, climb up to the space atop the door, and jump down inside my room. I didn't have the heart to toss her out...not after the herculean effort she'd given just to get inside my room to see me. That's how I knew she'd loved and picked me out of everyone in my family.
She left claw marks all along my door frame. But that was okay. I viewed them as marks of love. I called that cat "my homie."
