What's up all my bitches?
Damn it feels good to be a gangster, you know what I'm saying biotch?
I took the hovercraft through my neighborhoods yesterdays, cranking that song by some fuck named Coolio, "Gangster's Paradise", man that shit rocked, you should have seen my mo-fo representin', they know who's the fuckin boss round here. Damn, I'm such a tough mo-fo.
What's with the talk you say? It ain't none of your fuckin' business, is it?
Just kidding bitches, I know your readin' this, cause I made it your business. Sometimes I just go off on little rants here and there, to and fro, and what not and shit.
Work fucking sucked yesterday, those fuckin' moves are going take forever, and I have the weight of leavin' for Ireland on 'business' to worry aout to. And some fuckin' paintin' shit that the boss has me working on now. Paintin'? That's for those fucks the eggs to do, but I guess if 'he' says it has to get done, it has to get fuckin' done.
Am I ramblin'? I fucking think so, I shouldn't be writing in the a.m anyway, my head ain't right in the morning, fuck.
And fuck, I'm already getting letters from fucko kids that want to tell me what they want next year fro Easter, like I give a shit. I give them eggs, period. I don't make toys like that fat fuck up north of here-so why ask me for any kid? Why not just ask your fucking cooz parents for the shit, and save the middle man?
I'll have to share one of them letters with ya sometime, and show you the ignorance I deal with around here.
Fuck, I'm still ramblin', I got shit to get done, including 'collections' from my bitches representn' on the Southside.