Listen. Listen Good.

This has nothing to do with elephant poop. Well, I take that back. I'm writing in a semi-stream of consciousness on this one so I actually might bring it all 360 back to elephant feces so I shouldn't have written the above statement disallowing elephantine poo references that early. America's Best Dance Crew, here by known as ABDC, is officially the anti-Christ for the BBoy culture and I'm sure I have reasons somewhere. I think I remember my line of reasoning having something to do with getting played for no guaranteed pay and 14:59 minutes of semi-pop stardom while Randy Jackson's fat ass takes the l007 he pilfed off your dumb ass to go build a fucking fat burger in his retarded big swimming pool so he can feel less guilty about the new five pounds of dead baby that he develops around his punch after eating an entire cow. That guy looks like ten miles of bad road. Vegas is growing old and I really never thought I would be saying that. People who mattered now are worth about 30 seconds of my time while people who I neglected to see value in are coming into the 'good people' positions. It's a strange place to be in. I wouldn't suggest it lightly. Heard Nico got a job. I know I'm fucking excited. He should be too. North Carolina is taking New York's place this summer and the more the NYC trip dates looms the more I regret not copping tickets and saying fuck the world as I jetblue my silly ass over the worthless mid-west.

I think I have a hemorrhoid, which sucks. It might just be a punchy little patch of ass skin that's hanging on as I slim down for fighting and bboying. I'm hoping its a punchy little patch of loose butt skin. I'm really hoping its a punchy patch of butt skin. Jesus, I'm hoping it is. I can't afford asshole luggage as I work out. Ugh, right? Japs is good, if you cared Cyberspace friend. She's hating the real world and all the-and I say this with a sniffle and a giggle-hard work she has to put in to get by without Daddy's line of credit. We're really doing well, though. At least I think we are at least. I can never really tell. I remind myself of Peter Griffin(sp?) when I'm with her. I think that's how I know that I love her; I'm constantly left with the mental self image of a two deuce fat man who's half retarded and has a standing friendship with a talking alcoholic dog. I bought her some Channel sunglasses for our anniversary. They cost my entire fucking left testical and I'm left paying a flesh debt to Neimen Marcus for my entire left foot. Fucking shifty flesh merchants. They pray on retarded husbands like me and overly plastic boob-titty blond elephant women that are forced to purchase overpriced shit from them. God, I hate ABDC.

I wish I had a crew of stand-up cats who I could run shit with again. Someone once said that a man should know the hearts of the men he walks with. I am, as of now, in agreement. For better or worse I want to know the hearts of the cats I walk with. I want to know a nigga is down to clap back if we're running a scam or if that same dude is gunna' bolt and turn bitch-made. As of now I have seen the hearts of my crew and I have to say I've been, for the most part, left wanting. Some people are deep down cool people who I know just need to left go of their guilt and face their demons. Others are mercilessly selfish and unable to comprehend the idea of others. Whatever, though. Nico's a stand-up cat...if a bit lazy. I know he's worth his salt.

....no elephant poop references. I got close with that boob-titty plastic elephant women thing, though.

cheers, fuckers.