I sat down to holla at my peeps and let you all know what's been going on in my life and found out that I can't. Why? Buttercup keeps talking! She's rambling on about random things and I can't formulate a single thing of my own to write about.

I was in Pawtucket last night. I'm getting closer Angie!

I'm out.

God protect me from my friends, my enemies I can handle.

Once the police have made 2 or more 'social' calls to your house inquiring about your activities, you should consider packing the shit up. This isn't rocket science to most people. Most people would understand that just MAYBE the man knows what you're up to. Not MamaBoots! Figuredeal me for a minute....

It's Friday. You're driving to the local package store to get your supplies for the weekend. Considering that you were driving normally, the fact that the police pulled you over right in FRONT of the package store should tell you something. Here's a hint: Stop selling liquor out of your house bitch!

Now being that the local police react on emotion sometimes they make mistakes. The reason given for pulling her over was lack of insurance. Sadly, MamaBoots could prove that she had insurance, and they had to let her go. The officer must have had some pretty good mouth cocky with her, because she told MamaBoots to bring the car to the house and not to drive it again until all this shit was cleared up. To make matters worse, patrols by the house were increased dramatically. One of the officers actually stopped and looked into the driveway and stated that he just wanted to make sure the car wasn't moving. Now that's a hint and a half for that ass that these mother-fuckers are watching you. Feel me? And if that didn't get your attention, maybe the police waving to your ass on the porch all night long as they drove by might help you out.

I was feeling pretty good about things and how they went until I heard one thing. The package store called her, on her cell-phone, to see why she hadn't been to pick up her order. When she explained the whys and whatfors, this mother-fucker tells her that he can have one of his employees deliver her shit to her! Oh my fucking GOD. And you wonder why crime don't stop!

Oh well, I guess she'll keep grinding. I can't knock the hustle because she really seems to have hers worked out fairly well. I will say this though. It did bring a smile to my face to see her fat ass waiting for the bus as I drove off in my hooptie. Even a small victory is a victory nonetheless.

GOD protect me from my friends, my enemies I can handle.

Blaque

It's officially Thursday. This blog should be getting a bit more interesting. As with most of the world, Thursday starts most people's paydays.

The bootleg will be open until people stop coming. Dime-bags turn into twenty sacks. Money gets made. People from all walks of life show up. On payday, you get to see the dregs of society, as well as people you'd never think would be seen in this environment. Maybe package stores should stay open longer. Maybe weed should be legal. What do I know?

I hate going to the package store with MamaBoots. The owner must know what's going on. He regularly GIVES her up to 13 30-packs of beer, and assorted liquors. At last count I think she was given about 600 dollars worth of alcohol. Sure, she pays for it on Monday, but just the thought of him giving it to her sucks. And she has his workers load her car for her. I guess life is good.

The crazy thing is, she hates being a bootlegger. She just can't seem to stop. She's addicted to making that money. Every time the door is knocked on she gets all pissed. Traffic will start showing up at 8:00pm. Hell the package store is still open at that point! But as much as she moans and groans about it, she keeps getting her fat ass up off the couch and taking their money. Ce La Vie I guess.

The only thing worse than the liquor is the weed. I don't know if you've ever been in an area that has a half-pound or more of weed in it, but it reeks! There aren't a whole lot of people that are going to buy a half-pound of weed, so you have to break it down into smaller pieces. The smaller you make them, the more money you can make. We bust ours all the way down to dime bags. This is a strange punishment to anyone who has to do it.

When you pick up your dime bag, it's all nice and packed and ready to smoke. Trust me, it didn't start out that way. When the package comes in, someone has to sit in front of it and break off pieces of it and stuff them into little bags. These bags have to then be weighed. You don't want to give too little or too much. Once the proper weight has been achieved, you can seal it up and sell it. The process can take hours depending on how much you have to bag up. And while you're doing it, there's nothing you can do to get rid of the smell.

Well, everyone's all prepped and ready for the weekend to jump off. Come back and I'll tell you what happened.

GOD protect me from my friends, my enemies I can handle.

Blaque

As with everything else in life, once you draw attention to something it ceases to be as interesting as it used to be.

The most interesting thing going on at the moment is about Miah. He desperately wants to get an apartment. So bad in fact that he's been looking at them and filling out applications. You may think that this is all good, but it's not. He would be a perfect candidate for an apartment if it wasn't for a few things.

1. He has no money.
2. He has no job.
3. He's probably going to jail the next time he goes to court.

Other than that, he's got just as good a chance as everyone else. The sad thing is, he'll probably get the damned thing.

That's it for now. I'll probably write more later.

GOD protect me from my friends, my enemies I can handle.

Blaque