If you don't believe in God, you may also like etymology.

As you read this blog, I can't help but wonder. Dear reader, have you ever seen a Chevy with the butterfly doors? Stuntin' is a habit.

As I compose these sentences and sentiments, I sit on the floor of my former apartment in Sherman Oaks, California. I made this space my domain and lair for six months before I had to depart and start to stay at a pair of good friends' spot. It's a really good spot, and I'm grateful for the hospitality. But I miss when this apartment was mine. Now, my other good buddies have taken control of this sweet apartment, and as I type, they are assembling the shelves and tv stand. It's a bit funny that I moved stuff into this apartment, moved stuff out, and I'm back to moving stuff in again. I consider the warm Budweisers due payment for the work I've done. Ah, heck, I would've done it for free out of the spirit of good friendship. Weirdest part about it? This is going to be the domicile of my two good buddies, one of those buddy's lady, and their newborn son. Life is weird. Beyond weird.

I'm in the eye of a hurricane of weirdness. Actually, I'm not even in the eye. I'm in the thick of the heavy winds. I think it only appropriate that if you are my true friend you grab a burdewski, crack that sucker (and if you are truly brethren, you'll sip on a room-temp brew), slurp it down, and think of me and my southern california campaign while you listen to Baby Boy Da Prince's classic "This is the way I live." Look it up on youtube or something.

Thanks for the brotherhood boys.

This blog was way too genuine for my standards. Sheeyit.