I Got Fired. We’re fucking back.
So it’s been over a month since anything got posted to this goddamn blog. I blame myself, mainly, although there are plenty of other motherfuckers out there who deserve blame. Namely every other fucking writer on this thing.
But no longer. This site needs to come back. There are literally dozens (DOZENS!) of people who read this on a daily basis. And without their Hood Rich, what the fuck else are they gonna read? Rapeblog? Well, yes, actually. They could go read Rapeblog. It’s a perfectly respectable blog, with all the rapin’ you could ask for. I don’t want to start a war with Rapeblog. It’s run by ex-Marines.
But the real reason this site went AWOL for awhile (or, at least the reason I went AWOL) was that I got fucking “let go” from my job. I like that turn of phrase. Let go. As if I was holding on tightly, like that scene with Stallone from Cliffhanger, and suddenly they just decided they couldn’t hold me any longer. Oops. Down the mountain you go, with that little stuffed animal still stuck in Sly’s grasp.
I’m not naming any names, because I’m legally obligated not to do so. But fuck those people. They know who they are. Some of them might even read this blog. Fuck them in their asses. They can eat an entire salad bowl full of dicks.
I’ve been moping for the past month, not listening to any new music or feeling much like writing about it. However, I think I’m back. Why, you ask? Because I beat Grand Theft Auto IV and I’m out of shit to do. That’s the main reason, if I’m being honest.
But the other reason, if I have your permission to be slightly corny, is that music carries us. It’s escapism. I forget that I’m at home in my fucking boxers at 2 in the afternoon when I’ve got some good tunes playing. Yesterday I threw the new MGMT on the record player and felt fucking GOOD for the first time in like a month. Then I got piss drunk and ate chicken wings with a couple friends from my old job. And you know what? I didn’t have anything to complain about. It felt good that the biggest complaint I could muster was that I didn’t have much to do on a daily basis.
Careers are 20th century inventions. Don’t get caught up in them. Instead, play some good music, fuck some women (or men!), and drink whiskey until your pants are soaked with urine.
I’m back, motherfuckers. Maybe the other writers will follow suit. Maybe they won’t. But I’ll be here. Come get Hood Rich with me on a daily basis.
The Good Life
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