Raekwon the Chef: Yo, this blunt smells like bleach, cousin. You rolled this?
Ghostface Killah: Yeah.
I dunno, man. Shit has a chemical taste to it. Here, take it.
Damn, that shit is nasty! Smells like burnt hair.
Anyway, as I was saying. I knew that bitch would try to play me the way she did. She's like the Eye of Sauron, you know? Nothing gets past her when I'm wearing that ring. She came back from Chicago after visiting her aunt, and BAMN! not a week later she finds out about this "side project" I'm working on. Bitch went to Verizon and got a printout of all the calls and text messages sent to and from my cell piece. She claimed the bill was too high and wanted to check if there was a mistake, but now I know she was suspicious the whole time she got back from JFK. I shoulda clued in, cousin. But I was high as a cirrus cloud, you know? It's those small mistakes that get you, believe.
What she do then?
She freaked the fuck out! Clawing at my face like a crazy bitch on angel dust. I wanted to drop her, but you know how shit like that goes -- word to Warren Moon. So I broke north. I was out the house two seconds though when I hear all this crashing and banging, like there was a tornado back in that fucker. I thought the bitch was gonna smash my Linx plaque, so I rushed back in.
What she did was destroy most of my DVD collection. That's over 300 titles, son. And, yeah, most of the discs were alright, but all the boxes were FUBAR, and I'm somewhat of a collector. The only disc that didn't make it was Hustle & Flow.
I managed to calm her down (I thought she was gonna break my fucking plasma screen), but not before she called shorty, saying she was gonna kill her.
So you made things straight then?
Fuck that, son. That bitch and I been dead long before that nonsense. It was just the next necessary step in the evolutionary process of our relationship. Like that black monolith in A Space Odyssey. I only pretended to play nice so's to ensure she didn't stab me one night while I was sleeping before she got served her papers.
Sounds like one fucked-up ho, for real.
You don't know the half! I could fill a book with all the crazy shit that bitch did.
So these days how you livin'?
I feel good man, for real. Better than I have in my whole life, in fact. But it's weird; without that sort of conflict my writing suffers. It isn't at the level it once was. Paradoxes and shit, when I'm under stress I can pen an amazing verse, but when I feel like I'm exactly where I want to be, forever, I can't do shit. Maybe that's how John Steinbeck felt, I dunno. All I know is that comfort zones are dangerous in and outside of the creative process.
And that's all I'll say right now, for fear that if I continue I'll break the fourth wall.