Happy New Year! That’s what you’re supposed to say to muthafuckas when you first greet them in the ’07. Happy New Year, sir! Happy New Year, shawty! Well, I’m sick of that shit, and I’m sick literally. Feeling under the weather. So I can think of no better time to go in on a few things and people who’ve been getting on my goddamn nerves lately. Fill in the blanks if you must, but trust it all comes from the heart. I’m a complex dude, and this is one of the few forums I have to bare my soul. So a-way we go…

Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one with drive. The only one willing to put up with and live this hip-hop shit all day, every day for the past 15 years. I know niggas who used to be my peers who would rather spend a night in jail than have to interview Young Jeezy. (Intellectual snobbery.) I know niggas who feel downright insulted when I offer them a job. (False sense of reality.) I know niggas who having a real job is their worst nightmare. (Get a grip.) Niggas don’t wanna work hard, but they want to eat. Niggas disgust me.

I know people who use job offers from me just to better their situation. People who want to set up some sweet gig where they can do half-ass work and cake off in the freelance world on the side. These people should write a book: How to reach your six-figure dreams without ever breaking a sweat. All around the game, same song: “Yeah, I respect you, Elliott, and everything you’ve done in this game. I know I could learn from you. I know I could become a better writer and editor from being under your tutelage, but tootles. I’m gonna stay on this side and stack my chips without you cracking the whip on me. Sorry, Charlie, it ain’t personal. It’s the biz.”

If you know like I know, you would know that ain’t a go. That’s some sucker shit. It’s like being a computer thug who likes to spaz out with all CAPS when he gets a little flustered. It’s some chump stuff, but I let it slide. I let it slip on by. Why? ’Cause I got my eyes on the prize, and I’m willing to compromise. I don’t wanna fuck up what I created. Problem is men don’t wanna deal with their emotions. Men can’t communicate and talk among each other and solve problems. Ignore it, laugh it off and hope the drama goes away. And it does. But it comes back stronger than ever each time. Pretty soon them Twister winds will knock your monkey ass on your back. And I ain’t coming back to pick you up.

Sometimes you feel like the only one you can trust is the closest one to you. The one who’s willing to profess her love for you in a room full of your family and friends. Still, you’re hard on her, and she can be even harder on you. You demand the most of each other ’cause, in many ways, you’re all you got. You’re each other’s best friend and harshest critic. But somehow it works. On the good nights and the bad mornings. You believe in your heart shit will last, because you’ve had a blast so far. And you never, ever really reconsider the decision to be committed to one another. Love won’t keep you together, but respect and communication will.

Alright, I’m droppin’ too many jewels here. This is like an a cappella copy of Jay’s last album—way over your head. Okay, T.I.’s on the cover with his crew. Pretty fuckin’ hot, right? Didn’t see that coming, did you? Pulled that one out my ass. And that new Scratch cover—that’s me, too. B.Fred got you chumps in a choke hold with Nas, The Game, will.i.am. It’s a 1-2 punch, like A.I. and Melo, from a fellow on the start of his eighth year. Who would think I’d be here that long? What is there left for me to prove? Why not fly out to someplace sunny, dip my feet in the sand, sip a light beer and call it a career?

Get the fuck outta here.

I ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’m a survivor. I’ma stay grinding with the people who been riding with me for many years (Nessa, Leah, Davina and Sally) and the new folks smart enough to join the team (T, Q and Clover). And I’m gonna get over this grumpy-ass mood I’m in and have a muthafuckin’ Coke and smile. You know my style.

Get your minds right,

Elliott Wilson