Sep 5 2025

Love: What It Is and What It Ain’t.

My mother got admitted around midnight in July 2023, after a full day at the hospital. I called my girlfriend at the time, who is an oncology nurse, as soon as they took my mom in. She didn’t answer; it was late, she lives in Houston, I thought nothing of it and had bigger things to think about. She called me later that morning and apologized, sharing that my call didn’t go through her Do Not Disturb settings.

I left XXL Magazine in April 2023 because I was tired of being treated like a clown, knowing how much I contributed and how much of myself I poured into my work. We didn’t end on bad terms, but I couldn’t stay, it was untenable. I worked for OkayPlayer from late February until about the end of July. When that was done, I flew out to Houston to spend time with my then-girlfriend because I obviously missed her and needed a break from NYC. My day to day life was splitting my time (very unevenly) between handling a majority of my mother’s day to day caretaking needs, and working for OKP; I absolutely earned some time for myself, with my dad fully taking over my duties in my absence, with my sister coming when her work responsibilities allowed.

I was in Houston from about 6 weeks, a little under half of July and almost all of August, making sure to come back home before my mother’s birthday on August 27th. Somewhere around the middle of August, my mom texted me to tell me that when she went to her immunotherapy appointment, they discovered that she lost 15 pounds, and were scheduling an emergency CAT scan for her. I was over 1,000 miles away; I felt helpless. Every day I was in Houston, I worried about her, even with my mom asking me not to. I wanted her to be ok and I didn’t want things to go left while I was away, which was one of my worst nightmares.

After the CAT scan, they realized my mom was fine, her weight loss was solely due to her not eating enough, not any issues with her cancer, which wasn’t worsening. She was staying up late and and waking up later because she was watching the Olympics, even though she was fully aware she can watch the replays on my Peacock account. She did not care; my mom LOVED track and field and had no qualms with keeping her nearly 70 year old body awake at 2 am to watch it. All that waking up late cost her time to eat, and she wasn’t thinking about food anyway; she was thinking about the breakdancing competition on her TV. Of course, this aggravated me, but I laughed, happy that she was ok. I flew home about a week and a half later, making it home for her birthday. I don’t even remember how we celebrated or what she wanted; when your mother is as ill as mine was, you tend to just hope she makes it to certain milestones. She made it past Thanksgiving and Christmas, her favorite holidays, and this would be her second (and final) birthday with us.

When I was in Houston with my then-girlfriend, everything was fine between us. About 2 weeks after I got home, we were having a normal text convo, and she revealed she felt “weird” about a dream she had. The dream? She left me because I took too long to get engaged to her. I didn’t take this seriously because, I had no job and a very ill mother, there was nothing I could do about that. But I was also offended, because we had been together five years; I told her in year 2 she was the love of my life and that we were going to get married. I didn’t see anyone else for me, and the way I treated her reflected that. So for this “dream” (sure) to come up, then for her to act like I had no reason to be annoyed by how she was evasive about what the dream meant to her, blew this up. I asked repeatedly, in plain language, what does this mean, and she said “If you’re asking am I going to follow the dream, I’m not.” I wasn’t asking that at all. She then revealed that if she were to get to the point of being tired of waiting to be engaged in real life, she would “have to see how she felt in the moment,” which is a crazy ass answer. Nonetheless, the convo ended peacefully but I knew she was still mad, which didn’t make sense to me then and doesn’t now.

About two weeks after that (two week intervals were very big for me in 2024), we had a text convo about my mental health struggles, the despair of my mom’s now up and down health, my changing family dynamics, my career issues; basically, everything bothering me. I was the lowest I had ever been in my life. I was honest with her about how terrible and depressed I felt, like things would never get better for me internally and externally.

The next day, she texted me and said “I’m having trouble staying positive about your situation.” It is one thing to feel like someone you love is in dire circumstances; it’s something else entirely to tell them you are running out of hope for them, when they already have little hope for themselves. It was such a strange and hurtful thing to say, but I was so upset about my life, I just moved on. She didn’t try and clean it up or anything; she felt how she felt.

Over the next month, she would begin to distance herself from me, one time outright disappearing for a day and not speaking to me when I started texting her about my struggles again, then telling me she was busy with such things as watching the Netflix turd known as The Circle and working out. She was gone from the early afternoon until the next morning, something she does not do. When I asked her about it that morning, she acted like her behavior was normal and that I was acting weird for asking about it. Just a bunch of dumb ass excuses to cloud the truth; the terrible circumstances I had to face due to my mother’s illness, which I didn’t choose, made her just stop caring about me and what I had going on. My mom falling ill and music journalism collapsing in on itself changed my timeline for everything; there wasn’t shit I could do about that, and she knew. She was too much of a coward to say it was too much and she wanted to leave; she just became more and more callous.

This all culminated in her sharing that she feels a lot of “angst” in our relationship, mostly connected to us not having a plan for our relocation (she didn’t want to stay in Texas). The issue at the core of this is, she told me she wanted to move to another state; since we were long distance, the goal was to live together once that move happened. I told her since I have the flexible career (journalism) and she didn’t (oncology), she should look up the cities she can work in, then bring them to me and we use that as a starting point. She agreed. She then spent three years and only found 3 states, which I had to keep asking her over and over to give me. She spent years dragging her feet, and now, with an ailing mother and my life falling apart by the day, she felt it was urgent.

This led to her saying I “blamed” her for us not moving, 4 days of angry texting that led to her telling me she was not going to talk to me until the weekend (she shared this on a Wednesday in mid-October). I have expressed since the first year of our relationship that I don’t like the silent treatment/disappearing act, especially in a long distance relationship, because it’s unfair to me and also dangerous. If something happened to her or something happened to me, how would either party know if one half is intentionally ignoring the other? She knew how I felt about that behavior, and decided to do it for 4 days because she felt disrespected, something she would then not be able to explain when asked about it once she resurfaced. I wasn’t rude, I didn’t curse at her (because I don’t do that), I didnt yell, I was just tired of everything deteriorating, followed by vague answers as to why any of this escalating. She simply didn’t want to deal with her very real desire to walk because my life was fucked up, and chose to bullshit around that point.

We got on the phone that Sunday night. Longest phone call of my life. We spoke for 3.5 hours, but I knew my relationship was over in the first five minutes. As I mentioned earlier, she didn’t answer when I called to tell her my mom got admitted to the hospital. She didn’t answer again about 13 months later when my mom had to go back to the hospital late at night. I wasn’t tripping, but remember that she said she would handle it the first time. She called me later that morning and tested it like a day later; still wouldn’t work. She told me she would address it, and I moved on. I didn’t bring it up repeatedly, I really didn’t care since she said she’d take care of it.

Five minutes into that three hour call, I asked why didnt she take her phone into her service provider’s store and let them fix whatever the issue was with her DND. She interrupted me to say “…because I don’t have time for that shit and its not a high priority right now.” I was so taken aback by this answer that all I could muster was a “Wow.” You had a year plus to figure out why your phone literally doesn’t ring when your long distance boyfriend, with a sick mother, calls you after 12. I wasn’t calling to make kissy sounds in the phone, it was for an emergency every single time. This did not matter to her and I had to accept what I had thought for the last 2 months; the woman I planned to spend the rest of my life with, no longer gave a fuck about me. I kept talking because I wanted to give her the floor to share whatever her grievances truly were and well…..that was a ride.

Before we got to what she was upset about, she tried to defend disappearing for four days, before giving up and admitting it was excessive. Then she brings up us relocating, and starts arguing with and disputing that she wasn’t telling me where she wanted to move, along with not telling me when she wanted me to move in with her in Houston, temporarily, before a bigger move. This back and forth lasts too long, and out of nowhere she says “You’re right.” After my confusion, she reveals that she was “intentionally” not giving me any info on either move because she knew I was going through a lot with my mother, my family and my career. As if she was doing me a favor.

She made it seem like her leaving me in the dark was some sort of noble deed, after arguing that she wasn’t doing so. There is a way to discuss us moving, with tact. The answer is not to have developments, not tell me, then tell me you didn’t tell me because I was having a difficult time, which is indirectly blaming me for something I didn’t tell you to do. To be honest, I don’t believe this at all; I think it was just a convenient excuse. She wasn’t telling me and concocted a non-existent argument because she just wanted to go.

The convo continues on and she says something to me that I thought people only said in movies. “So you’re perfect?,” she exclaimed, after 10-15 mins of me airing grievances that she both couldn’t defend or explain. She tried to get me to “guess” what I did wrong in my relationship; when I refused and told her to say what she had a problem with, she shared the most callous shit I’ve ever heard from a woman.

Her first issue with me? She felt I took too long to get medicated, for my mental health struggles. I have generalized anxiety disorder and depression. I wasn’t angry, or abusive, or horrible to people…I was just sad and heartbroken all the time. I was afraid my cancer-stricken mother was going to die every day, I had no money, I was struggling as me and my family went through this uncharted territory; I was in pain. She expressed long ago that she was pretty much tired of me talking about how upset I was all the time, and that’s what she wanted the medicine to do; shut me the fuck up.

I didn’t get medicated for over a year because to put it plainly? I was afraid. I grew up being taught not-so-great things about taking mental health meds and I was afraid of side effects, personally. I had to push myself through that and decided to go get help when I couldn’t breathe as we waited for the results of one of my mom’s many CAT scans. Funnily enough, I was only given a low dosage of Trazodone. So, I’m being made to feel like shit over a medication that isn’t that serious at all. After I explained everything I said here, she said “That doesn’t make sense.”

Her next grievance was also ice cold. She told me she would have handled my depressive episode better than me. Yes, me being miserable over my mother being sick and the other stressors in my life, she would have done a better job than me. I was calm for the entire call; this was the comment that truly pissed me off. She has never experienced what I was dealing with, there is no comparison to make. She was angry that I didn’t ask how she was doing over a course of four text conversations; she bought it up when it happened, which was weeks before. I apologized and we were fine. For some reason, she bought it back up, and I was lost as to what she wanted me to do. It was never intentional. I told her “If I forgot to ask how you were doing, why wouldn’t you assume I was really struggling at the time?” She responded with, “Oh, I knew you were [struggling].” Very well then.

We finally end the call, she texts me the next morning saying she can’t talk because she’s behind in work because of our convo/issues last week. She then starts talking to me about when she wants me to mail her gift to her crib (her birthday was the next day) since she was going to be out of town at a festival in Atlanta. I knew about the festival, but the audacity to talk to me about your bday gift (which was never sent), along with you now having no time to discuss all that crazy shit you said last night, was insulting. She also suddenly realized she should take her phone to get fixed after saying it wasn’t important the night before; she knew what she said the night before about her not having time or prioritizing was both mean and bullshit. And no, she didn’t apologize for saying that.

I told her in that very same text convo that I no longer want to be with her based on her behavior as of recently and the things she said on that call. I gave her the option of getting on the phone to talk, but if she didn’t that’s fine too. Not only did she not call, she didnt text, she didn’t say another word.

Things were bad. Then my mom called me into her room to tell me she had to go back on chemo, but did not want to tell me because she knew I was upset about my breakup. The illness that would eventually take my mother away from me was worsening, and she still thought to protect me first, by waiting a couple days to tell me. I now finally knew the difference between someone who truly loves you, and someone who just says it.

I have not heard a word from someone I dated for 5 years, since October 21st of last year. She treated me like shit, then disappeared in silence. She didn’t send condolences after my mother died this April either, and she knew, because a bunch of her friends took it upon themselves to reach out to me. You really never know how someone will abandon you, but I found out, in the most difficult time I’ve ever faced.

Jun 16 2025

Cancer, My Momma and Me.

In July 2023, my mom’s longtime doctor called and told her that she needed to be rushed to the hospital. Her red blood cell count was so out of whack that he thought she was bleeding internally. At this point, my mother was very depressed over her younger sister’s death, leading to her eating less, sleeping a lot, and being in a general state of malaise I’d never seen from her. I knew she was sad and really needed help, but I never thought she was sick. I used to tell her to go to the doctor for a check-up all the time; she ominously told me right before she went that she was concerned that she might be really ill and decided to cancel my long-distance, now ex-girlfriend coming over for dinner. In something my family has said a lot since my mother’s passing, she knew.

My mom got admitted to the hospital around midnight. Back at home, I was eating once a day, and not sleeping. I was terrified, and seeing my mom in a hospital bed was really difficult. One day during this stay, I walked in as a doctor said she had liver cancer, which didn’t make sense to any of us, based on her habits. They came back in the next day and said they believed she had colon cancer which had metastasized to her liver.

Easier to treat than liver cancer and much more sensible to me, I was kind of ok with the doctor’s (unconfirmed) diagnosis. But I was still in serious denial. My mom? Handled it incredibly. She admitted she cried with my father the first time they believed she had cancer, but by day 3, she was just willing to do what she had to, to get better. Meanwhile? I’m losing my fucking mind, but hiding that from my mother. She got discharged on the 6th day after a biopsy earlier in the week; we had to go home and wait to see what the results were.

I believe we had to wait about a week and a half. In that time, my dad came home and revealed that he had a mass in his colon, discovered during his routine colonoscopy. He would need surgery to remove it, and they took a sample from the mass to check it for colon cancer. So, in short, me and my family had to wait to find out if both of my parents had colon cancer at the same time. I can only describe the experience as feeling like the top of my head was exploding, every day, with no relief; I don’t know how I survived. My dad’s sample came back clean, but after his successful surgery that cured him, they found out he actually did have a very mild form of colon cancer; my mom’s biopsy revealed that she had Stage IV colon cancer, that had spread to her lungs and liver, and she would have to start chemotherapy.

My mother made it a point to tell me, my sister and my dad that she wasn’t going to die immediately, because God was going to give us time to prepare for her to go. Yet again, she knew.

My mother’s first course of chemo was from August 2023 until mid-February 2024, just after my birthday (Valentine’s Day). My mom was a medical miracle; at 68 years old with advanced cancer, the chemo had shrunk half of her lesions and totally removed the cancer from her colon. We all went to the cancer center to see her ring the bell; we took photos and videos that never saw the light of day because my mother was very private about her illness. She was so happy that she cried; I felt tears welling up in my eyes that day, and I do right now. That was when my mom was the most like herself, and once she got put on immunotherapy, which was just an injection she got every 3 weeks, she only got better and better.

Now that her illness was taking less out of her, my mom returned to traveling with my father, one of her favorite things to do. My mother is very funny and incredibly smart; I’m wiping tears of grief and pride thinking about how unique her personality was. I knew my mother was doing better, because not only did she have a lot more energy, but she was back to talking shit about people.

My mom had to be taken to the hospital again in December 2024, one of a flurry of hospital stays throughout the year. When she got there, the oncologist on-site saw her and said her chemo wasn’t working. He ended up being correct; my mom was continuing to lose weight and struggling to eat. My mother was in the hospital for 5 days, even through NYE. Her personal oncologist took her off of that chemo in January, and switched her to chemo pills. The advantage of the pills is they would be easier on my mother’s system and she wouldn’t need to go down the stairs and leave the house, a task that was becoming more difficult for her with each passing week.

I regularly cooked for my mom, handled any day to day issues that came up, and helped her walk around the house. The neuropathy from all the chemo took away the sensitivity in her hands, making it hard for her to pick her pills up. I used to drop them in her mouth, and hold her water bottle, that was now too heavy for her. Seeing her that weak really killed me. This was all so sad, but my mind was set on helping her no matter what. How poorly she was doing was barely registering, but I felt it in my spirit. I felt in my (ongoing) inability to sleep, because I fashioned myself into a light sleeper so I could jump out of the bed and help her in crisis situations, which started to happen with more and more frequency. I felt it in my constant anxiety and fear, worried I was going to find my mother dead in her bed every morning.

My mom had to be taken to the hospital again in April because she had jaundice. I mentioned her eyes to my sister, and she said she had already noticed it. My sister called it in, and her oncologist said she had to go to the hospital to get her liver checked. I was honestly too afraid to call myself, because my mom had been in the hospital barely 2 weeks before, now so weak that she had to be taken home via ambulette, with the EMTs strapping her down flat to a stretcher and carrying her up the steps. I praise my sister for taking the initiative, and her courage got my mother examined.

Ultimately, they couldn’t help her. Her eyes and tears were yellow because the cancer in her liver was worsening, and there was no area where they could stent it and free the bile. On her second to last day, two doctors came in and told us that my mom’s options for cancer treatment are limited, that they didn’t believe she could keep doing chemo because of the state of her bones. You need healthy bones to produce red blood cells; my mom’s skeleton was so worn down from both the chemo and the cancer spreading to bones in her back, that her count was struggling to recover. It was up to my mom’s main oncologist to decide on the next step, on May 20th, a date I dreaded. I fully expected her to tell me my mom was going to die, that day.

My mom was discharged on April 17. They sent her home with the kind of aid she rejected in the past; she now had an in-home physical therapist, a home health aide 3 times a week, and a nurse dropping by to check on her. All 3 of these women were excellent to my mother, but that week is when I realized she would need even more help. She needed an aide that was around more often, and part of the reason my mom finally accepted that kind of help, was to ease the weight on me of taking care of her. I went out more, but my mom was on my mind at all times. I was enjoying myself (I guess) but it was very difficult.

The morning of April 26 at 9:01 am, I was woken up by my sister calling my phone, urging me to go in my mother’s room, because she believed she was home alone. I went in, reassured her, rearranged her in bed and fixed her pillows with my dad, and left the room, as she told us to go. At this point in my mom’s life, she couldn’t really move her legs or body in bed (due to muscle atrophy), so we would have to move them into comfortable positions. I fell asleep, and my eyes jolted open at noon, my own voice in my head saying “CHECK ON MOMMY NOW.” I went back in that room and what I saw broke my heart.

My mother was trying to talk to me but was nonverbal, just grunting through her clenched teeth, and not blinking. Then she started breathing heavily, almost panting. I yelled for my father, who ran upstairs and held her. We alternated in and out of the room, as I called 911 and we had to get dressed; we’ve called the ambulance for her so many times that we had a system. When I went into my room to find a hoodie to put on, I was panicking and couldn’t find anything. I heard, again, my own voice say to me, “Your mother is going to die. Stop rushing.” I immediately calmed down, slowly looked and found my hoodie immediately. I felt calm rinse over me, but I also hoped I was wrong. But I knew I wasn’t. I knew.

I went in that room and she was breathing so lightly that I thought she stopped. I yelled for my dad again, he runs to the bed and is cradling her in his arms. She took two more breaths and left us, and that was the last time I saw my mother alive. She passed before the EMTs got up the steps, and I will never forget how their demeanor changed when I led them to my mother. They relaxed, and had a gentle ease about them that I didn’t see in the many EMT duos I’ve seen in her room. They knew. One of the EMTs put the oximeter on her finger and it was flatlined, and never activated. I pretty much saw that and broke down with my father. Then I called my sister and relayed the bad news.

My friends, my sister with her boyfriend in tow, and my cousin rushed to the house, the officers and EMTs were wonderful to us in such a difficult situation, everyone went above and beyond. My mother passed peacefully, in the bed she loved, in the house she loved, in the arms of the love of her life. She would not have wanted it any other way. Her head rested on her pillows, turned towards the big window in her room. The sun illuminated her so beautifully, and she looked so pleased, that I had to remind myself she was gone. Even typing it right now, I can’t believe it.

Of course, my mom is always with us through her lessons, wisdom and eternal love, but not hearing that laugh ever again hurts me so, so deeply. My mother was in an unbelievable amount of pain, so I don’t want her here on Earth with us, suffering so I can see her face. I am at peace with her having to go, because honestly, things were dire. But I miss her, and not in the overt ways. The silliest shit will happen to me, and I’ll think “I gotta tell mom.” And I still can, but it’s not the same. Those few days after my mother’s death, I felt like I got so many random breaks, and got nudged out of so many poor decisions, that it had to be my mom’s doing. Whether it’s because she pulled strings in a metaphysical sense, or because her guidance still rang true in my spirit, my momma got me. She is still maneuvering things for me, I feel it every day.

When my mother died, I felt freed, which made me feel weird. I felt my desire to die, or totally give up on my life, lifted off of me when my mom left the earthly plane. These last 2 years were extremely difficult for me, between my mom’s health. my break up and my carer woes. When the sun hit me when I stepped outside, all of that was gone. I was good now. I had hope. My mom gave me a lot of things, but her death bought me back to myself. She outright told me that it wasn’t fair that I had to take care of her, that I should be enjoying my life and not spending my time worrying and making sure she was ok. I understood her passing as a chance to live for myself, because that’s what she wanted me to do. My mom handed me something that I could not give myself, as she always has. Selfless still, even in the afterlife.

As difficult as the last few months of my mom’s life were, we had a lot of good times. The smile on her face when we ate together, especially her favorite at the time, Japanese food. The way she used to laugh at my ridiculous observations, the way her laughter filled the floor anytime my sister came over. Me and my mom used to discuss politics, social issues, nutrition, you name it. I loved watching her random YouTube finds with her, whether it be women camping in far off lands or cruise ship reviews, or laughing at the insanity of Disney adults. I was happy to spend time with her, I took taking care of her as an honor, as a deeply held responsibility. My mom sometimes felt like she was a burden, but she was not. I’ve never missed a burden in my life.

I have handled her death pretty well emotionally, but seeing her casket get lowered in the ground was when I felt forced to accept everything. Since her death, I couldn’t remember her voice; it was like my brain was blocking how she sounded to shield me from the pain. But as she was lowered into her resting place, I could hear her saying “Best Son Ever!” which she called me all the time, and I only started to accept in her later days. As soon as I heard her voice in my mind, my eyes filled with tears. I will never be the same, but I’m not supposed to be. I died with my momma too, but I get to take steps to becoming whole with each passing day, and she made sure that I’d be able to do so.

Aug 13 2024

within the trench.

My mother has been asking me for years, when will I write on here again. That time is now.

My feelings on what’s considered a “normal” online presence have evolved; I don’t owe anyone anything regarding my life. I barely post on Instagram because I need some parts of my life, for myself. My distaste for Twitter worsens by the month. The way social media has wound itself into everything leads to a feeling of always having to be “present” and posting, and I just don’t find that interesting anymore.

As time went on, I felt less-inclined to talk about my life, because really fucked up things were happening to me. I had to go through the (still-active) pandemic in 2020 like everyone else, but I also had a house fire to contend with, where I narrowly got my parents out of the house. I found out King Von had been killed, who I had a growing relationship and who successfully launched my XXL IG Live show less than a week before. I was alone in my girlfriend’s apartment, tears streaming down my face. Things would become more difficult for me, going forward.

In the summer of 2022, both of my parents got COVID at the same time; I took care of the both of them for a little over 2 weeks without getting it myself, afraid they were going to die for pretty much that first week. When my mom recovered, she felt good enough to return my Auntie Leslie’s call, as she didn’t really have the energy for phone calls. My family’s relationship with my aunt has been up and down, due to her mental health struggles and what comes with that, but her and my mother had recently fices their relationship. My aunt didn’t answer my mom’s multiple calls. My sister went to go check on my aunt and all she found was her apartment window open, lights on, the horrifying smell of death wafting out. I was with my mom, who was now hysterical but hoping for the best. I was too, but it was too late. My aunt was dead, and she wasn’t even in the apartment; her body had been taken out of it days before, courtesy of the police and her landlord never notified anyone. My aunt passed in her sleep from COVID complications, right as my parents recovered from the same virus. We never saw it coming.

I loved my aunt and I wish I spoke to her more, and I should have pushed harder to make things right when things were rough between her and my family. But she knows how I felt. And she really helped me build my self-esteem, as I was a very shy, often-teased kid growing up. She told me she was proud of me all the time, and that shit really kept me going more times than she will ever know.

I didn’t know what to do when she died, honestly. I sent her a long series of texts soon after, and I realized we didn’t have a lot left unsaid. I wish we got to hang out as two adults, because I’ve really come into my own, and because I knew I could always be honest with her about what was going on with me. She is KEY in my love for Janet Jackson and dance music, and more importantly, for wanting to extract joy out of life.

I spoke at her funeral and all I remember is bringing up when she turned on Janet Jackson’s “Go Deep” video on every TV in my childhood apartment and singing and dancing as loud as she could, when I wanted to go to sleep. I was sobbing, because that ridiculous memory that scared the hell out of me back then was now something I really cherished. I need to be more like my auntie, I always wished I was; I’ve always been very guarded until my mid-to-late 20s. I feel I’ve fallen short of her example, and it eats at me from time to time, just like when I passed on hanging out with her at NBA All Star Weekend, because I was running around with my then-girlfriend. Those chances don’t come back and I have to live with that. I will miss my aunt forever, but I live in honor of her, because I know I couldn’t become the person I am, without her in my corner.

Dec 21 2021

the rap writer’s endless grief.

“Did you hear about XXXTentacion?” he said, to all of us. The older dude who worked on our floor, that I didn’t know at all, was the one who broke the news to us that the young rapper, had been murdered in broad daylight. Seconds later, the video of him laying in his driver’s seat was on the large Mac displays we had in our office, back when I worked out of one of those. I hurriedly said “don’t show me,” because well, I can’t deal with seeing people breathing their last breaths, no matter how much the internet has desensitized us. I felt hollow for the rest of the day, and out of sorts: I was no fan of X due to the crimes tied to his name, but I knew he had talent, and I was two months removed from seeing him turn Rolling Loud Miami, into a total frenzy. He was gone now. Permanently. And I knew right there, in that moment, as I ate dinner, alone in a restaurant, that these rapper deaths would hit closer and closer to home. One day it would be someone I really had love for. I hoped I would be prepared. I was not.

I could say the rise of Pop Smoke in NYC was something you had to be there for; he got hot so fast that he was already stretching outside of the boundaries of tri-state area by spring 2019. I knew who he was, of course, I heard his songs, I thought they were cool, but I didn’t “get” what he was doing until I met him. I had no idea what to expect, after watching and reading his other interviews; rappers who haven’t been in music very long, can be standoffish, or guarded. He comes to the office, with just a few of his friends and his publicist, and he’s disarmingly cool, like someone I would’ve grown up with, even though I was at least 11 years older than him. What was most striking about Pop, was his happiness. He was happy to do press, to talk his shit, to be successful, to make music and be loved for it. But most importantly, he was happy to be himself, completely comfortable in his own skin in an industry that makes husks of promising young talent, because it only loves their output, with little care for the human being behind it. After I met Pop, Meet The Woo, his debut tape, made sense to me, the songs landed, he had a fan and supporter in me.

Y’all know where I work, and you know what we on when the new year starts….the Freshman List. Every year, it’s a who’s who of the rappers who are up next (and with the speed of how rap moves, those who are up now). January 2020, Pop Smoke came to the office to do his Freshman pitch, where he is interviewed by staffers about what his next steps are for the year, he discusses why he should be a Freshman and how he feels about the idea, things of that nature. I was working on something else, so I was going to check on Pop when he got out of the meeting. It was kind of late, like 7 or 8 pm, and he strolled out of the back, the same stocky, star power-exuding dude I remembered. He, of course, got picked to be a Freshman, because understand: he HAD to be. He loomed LARGE in the city (and beyond), he WAS Brooklyn Drill to most people, by far the most recognizable act within it. I dapped him up and told him congrats, and he def poked fun at how muscular I was after I shook his hand (likely too strongly)…which is crazy, cause he was also strong as shit. It was great to see him, and he was ecstatic to be a part of this.

February 19th, 2020. Pop is dead, murdered in a home invasion in Los Angeles that still doesn’t make sense to me, the reality of it just being too much. He was 20 years old, man. Seeing his light be snatched away, knowing where he was headed and how committed he was to getting there, was really disturbing as fuck to me. I don’t think I really ever recovered, because I basically couldn’t feel anything, when I realized the rumors were true, Pop, that guy we all loved in the office, was gone. Forever. Look past the music for a second; the person, the human being, was gone. And we had to sit with that. And I say “sit” as a figure of speech, because working within rap means you are endlessly moving through death, hoping it gets easier, or in my own personal case, hoping the constant loss of life doesn’t strip me of my humanity, of my ability to feel pain for these artists, and that hole that never really fills in their absence. I remember standing outside, talking to my coworker’s about Duke Deuce’s tape which dropped the same day, Memphis Massacre 2, and how Pop’s death made it hard to focus on such a strong project. I was in a daze for the rest of that day, the rest of that week, the rest of that month, my only respite being denial, refusing to accept what happened.

My connection to Von was very similar to Pop’s, but a bit more involved, just because of how different Von’s route was to fame. Mired in legal troubles and unable to get his feet out of the street, Von pretty much came out of nowhere and dropped “Crazy Story” and “Took Her To The O” within 12 months. “Took Her To The O” was when I realized “Von is going to take off, and everyone has to accept and realize this.” I actually interviewed him nearly a week after Pop got murdered, and remembered feeling that “I hope he gets to hang around and enjoy this shit” feeling. Losing artists you actually knew, were around, and helped promote puts you into that kind of mindset; you become fearful, you worry about these people, you wonder will they get to bask in their success, or will all of this get cut short. Von was cool as hell too, just like Pop, and unflappable and very open, speaking very clearly and honestly to me about his jail time and cases, without me asking or really pushing (I think it’s extremely police when interviewers press on topics like this, but thats another conversation). I was a fan of Von, but worried his the criminal investigation (accusation of a shooting in Atlanta, alongside his friend and OTF leader/labelmate, Lil Durk) he was wrapped in would hold him back at XXL. He really did want to be a Freshman, his team pushed hard for this, and he was easy to work with. I was in his corner, but understood the reality of the situation.

In winter 2020, we were trying to launch Who Am I? Live, an IG Live interview series split between me and my colleague, where we Scheduling, destiny and perfect timing led to us opening the show with Von, and us both having to trust each other on something new. I had to believe that Von would be engaging and open to talking, and that I’d ask the right shit, and he had to trust that I would do my best to give him room to let his charisma and music shine though, and give his fans what they wanted.

Von was incredible in the interview, giving me a tour around his hotel room, introducing his friends, playing a ton of unreleased music, and even playing one of his videos before they dropped. He rose up to the moment and so did I, and I hope he realizes how much he held me down and legitimized me, as I did something I hadn’t done before. The aftermath of this interview had my parents, who are both in their 60s, singing Von’s praises, this young dude from Chicago who had been through it all. That specific interview was a source of happiness for me; I was dealing with my own depression/anxiety issues, worrying about the love of my life’s fibroids and the pain she was feeling, and just trying to survive the pandemic, when it felt like letting your guard down for a second would put you in a coffin.

Just over a week later, Von was gone, killed in a fist fight with Quando Rondo that turned into a shooting. I was in Houston when I found out, where I had been for about a month with my girlfriend, so I was alone while she was at work. I felt that familiar sinking feeling, but I chose to not believe social media, and held out hope that there had been some sort of misunderstanding, that Von just got shot but wasn’t dead. I came into a work meeting on Zoom as they all realized it was true, Von died on the way to the hospital, 700 miles from his hometown, the victim of social media beef that boiled over. I muted myself on Zoom, because I was crying in an empty room, and could not compose myself to say anything to my coworkers. I was in a lot of emotional pain at the time, which would soon lead to my anxiety disorder getting so bad that I had a gnawing in my stomach that would go on to last for months. I was worried about my girlfriend, I was worried about myself, I was worried about everyone I loved in the middle of a pandemic that was cutting lives short left and right, and I was under a lot of duress at work. Then I wake up to Von being killed over some bullshit, and I was expected to continue on like everything was ok.

I texted my sister and my parents and told them Von was dead, and even reading the text messages makes me remember how distraught I felt in the moment; it’s something I can’t forget, even now. Those thoughts were in my head again, where I didn’t feel I could be this close to hip-hop anymore, and just push through the psychological effects of “This person I’m cool with is dead now, and they can all be snatched away from us, in an instant.” It was fucking me up, it still is. The very thing I knew would happen to me, did. And it came quickly. Obviously, I hung in there, but the deaths really didn’t stop, and there is no simple answer to slow it down, no path to peace without nuance.

Before Von died, Juice WRLD died via overdose, which was terrifying and something I still haven’t come to terms with. Young Dolph being killed just weeks ago was too much; I loved the man and his music, and who he was, what he represented, and was beside myself to meet him the one time I did. Every time these deaths happen, like Drakeo The Ruler this past weekend, or Slim 400, or Mac Miller or Nipsey Hussle, I lose a bit of myself to this shit, to this hip-hop world I exist in that I contribute to. This is not about me being a fan, which I will always be. This is about me working in rap, getting to know these people, then refreshing TMZ to find out they got their lives taken or died in the most heinous ways.

Every time a rapper is lost, it chips away at my will to maintain my proximity to covering the genre. But the reality is, going back to being purely a fan is no easier, and may be more difficult in certain ways. Plus, walking is somewhat cheating my gift and my dream, and I owe something back to hip-hop, for all it’s given me; I love being a part of this shit. With each additional rapper death, it becomes more and more difficult to bounce back; it makes this all seem little futile and very finite, knowing that any rapper you’re a fan of, could be gone in the blink of an eye.

Mar 23 2021

Peter and The Chicken.

You ever felt impending doom? Not the anxiety-based one that isn’t connected to anything, but I mean, real, actual, I’m-going-to-die-and-it-may-really-happen kinda shit. Being in a pandemic and you know, staying in the house and being very choosy with where I decide to take risks (I’m no gambler), gives you a lot of time to think. This COVID shit has been horrifying, and I am thankful me, my direct family and my friends have survived it, although I have lost some loved ones. But, I’m always close to dying. I’ve been there so many times in my life, that one would think it would change my outlook, maybe make me less abrasive, maybe value my days better, but no, not really. I know this life shit is fickle and fragile, and it makes me laugh to myself in confusion, every time I think about it.

Way back in late 2009/ early 2010, my college (yall know where I went) was having REAL issues with the neighborhood we were in. A lot was going on: Students were getting robbed and assaulted by local residents(and really, thats a product of a big ass school buying up your culture-filled neighborhood and pushing the people out), my friends were getting into beefs that turned very serious, one of which directly included me, someone got stabbed up in a fight right outside of my apartment window, we had become numb to hearing gunfire when we went to parties. Things were, in all reality, very fucked up. I say this after nearly being killed by campus police just 3 years earlier; this was as bad as things had ever been down there. And I really did think I was going to get killed before I graduated, because my understanding of the universe was based in “chances.”

You are going to have brushes with danger; I had been lucky over, and over, and over, and I knew that shit was gonna run out one day. You can lie to and play with everyone on this Earth; you cannot bullshit the universe. If you know in your heart of hearts, that just being out and about when things are so tense, can raise the chance of you being harmed, you are either bullshitting, the way you operate needs to change. So I laid low, but even with that me and my boy, who I love to this day, had to dip out of a party and sneak back to my apartment because someone in there wanted to shoot it up, because he saw us in there (over a money beef I inherited, just because I was present). Literally looked at us, then told the party he was gonna clap the shit up. Then we had to watch for him circling the block, after we dipped. That’s what I was doing in 2009 and 2010; trying to not die. After just barely not dying in 2006. Before I was walking around the Bronx in the dark in 20111, regularly, trying to get to my GF’s house in a hood where no one knew me but her, knowing I was pushing it every time I did this shit. Then wanting to die in 2015, while in the pits of depression. Then ACTUALLY having to rush my parents out of a house fire in 2020, while trying to also not get killed by COVID. I’m always dodging death; I never stopped.

I had been distracted enough to believe trying to get through COVID was something that was beyond me, but it wasn’t, I’m always trying to outrun some shit. The way I feel between vaccine shots (I already got my first) makes me feel the same way I did when I was running through the dark in Norfolk, hoping we weren’t being followed. The way I felt staring out of my bedroom window, not knowing someone was going to get stabbed in the middle of the giant mob. The way I felt when my homegirl hit us up hysterical, because there was a dead body in front of her college crib, on a back block. The same way I felt watching my childhood home, with smoke coming out of all its windows as the basement got reduced to cinders, hoping the house wouldn’t explode. Some foul shit is always around the corner, but I haven’t known it any other way, for a very long time. The fact that something as joyous as getting vaccinated could remind me of how close to the edge I’ve been, says a lot about how I see things. I got the first shot, I was happy for about an hour, then I got sad, thinking about how paranoid I’d be until my second, and how taxing all of this has been to live through. I also got wrapped up in how weird this whole experience has been, but I’m just…surviving. I don’t think it’s particularly brave, or valiant; I’m just alive, and I appreciate that.

I will be fine, because I know I will be. But, I know the reality of things. I know how shit can go wrong. Me understanding how things play out, and how poorly they can go, is why I think so well on my feet. That’s all I ever had; being in situations where I had to make the right choice or die, be it literally or metaphorically. People who love you can say whatever they want, you can put on whatever facade you feel like showing off, none of that shit matters. In the moment of truth, I’m going to do what I have to do, because I need to, and you better do the same. I’ve done so, many a time, and I know that a lot of things in this life are predicated on split second decisions. I take solace in that, but living in the pandemic has shortened my fuse; I’m not patient, I don’t like wasting time on bullshit anymore, I find it frustrating when someone’s head is in the clouds, I can’t stand when people don’t say what they mean. Our time is limited, and my hourglass nearly emptied one too many times to play. I can’t stand indecisiveness in big moments, and that’s partially because of jealousy; I didn’t get to bullshit in those moments, because I would have died, that innocence was stolen from me a long time ago. Thankfully, I did survive all this shit, and I get to give life another go with each new day, as I try to give more than I take.

Jun 28 2020

“It’s a big difference.”

I heard an oddly familiar, but very loud beep. I assumed it was an alarm at a nearby house and brushed it off. Then I heard another, similar sound, followed by my mother yelling that there was a fire in the basement.

My mother is strong as fuck. I hate referring to black women as “strong” because it robs them of the room to be delicate, to feel pain, to be vulnerable. On the same token, I’ve watched my mother not flinch during shit that would’ve killed me, seen her stand up for people whose voice wouldn’t have been heard otherwise. She is a wonderful woman with a gigantic heart who ALWAYS sees the bigger picture. And that is strength, to me.

But she was concerned. I could tell from her voice. It’s the same way she sounded as she saw me spiral through a depressive episode for years. Just like back then, she saved my ass, yet again.

I ran down the steps, leaving everything behind. I was in disbelief, almost if my mom was mistaken. But nope, it was real, the dryer that I put my clothes in just ten minutes ago went up in flames, quickly overwhelming the basement, if the smoke that was seeping upstairs was real. My mom tried to go back downstairs to the fire, and I yelled (without cursing, because yes, I wanted to) for her to not do that and just leave the house. I told my dad the same; I also told him to just close the basement door instead of running down there. That move was done to save my mother’s cat Cathy from accidentally running downstairs and dying.

I get my parents outside of the house. I’m standing outside, hoping the fire doesn’t reach the boiler and blow the house up, and that the cat doesn’t die. I’m also extremely concerned about me or my family contracting Coronavirus outside, as the entire neighborhood is outside now, talking to us. My parents, thankfully, were masked up. I wasn’t, but kept my distance when I remembered. Long story short, FDNY put the fire out, the cat was fine (but scared, hiding in an upstairs closet), and the house is intact. We can’t stay there for some months, but we’re in a nice rental crib, my family is good, shoutout to the insurance my parent’s busted their asses for over the years.

My mother said I saved her and my dad (and by proxy, the cat’s) life. I decided to just be modest and not think about it. I talked to my girlfriend about it and admitted that I agreed with my mom’s sentiment, but it was a lot to stomach. The entire time I was trying to get my parent’s out of that house, I was thinking that the house was gonna blow up and they were going to die. That’s all that was on my mind. But I got them out, got outside and called 911. I was semi-hysterical but I was much more composed than I expected. But my mom thinks I saved them. And that conflicts with my idea of heroism.

My father is a hero. He saved my neighbor’s life when I was a kid, when she fell taking garbage to the incinerator on our floor and cut herself on the glass in the bag, leaving blood all over the hallway. I don’t know how he realized what was happening from inside our apartment, but he got to her and called 911, and saved her from bleeding out, and got his kids, who didn’t have local friends, a close friend down the hall and a family that embraced us. And he saved my friends lives too, with the way he has always been welcoming; they love him and admire him the same way I do. Because he’s a hero. And he’ll never admit that shit, because that’s not his style.

My mother is a heroine. She spent a lot of years in the New York Board of Education. She was a teacher, administrator, assistant principal and principal. I’ve seen the kids and adults that spent time in her schools, the lives she’s touched. They have an unending respect for her, as does everyone who has ever worked with or known her. She’s saved a lot of lives, directly and indirectly. She’s won awards for her work in schools, she has had students that would and have put their safety on the line for her. But she also would never admit any of this, because she is modest, and humble.

I have done a lot in my life. I am not modest or humble or anything of the sort. But I try to be my best self each day, and all I really want to do is help and do what’s right. With all of that said, I am (still) taken aback by the idea that I saved my family, because I just did what was correct to me, while being terrified. I understood that my fear could cost me the lives of my loved ones, so I acted as if I felt nothing, besides urgency. I do truly believe that I am a star that hasn’t evolved yet, but I’m no hero. I’m just someone who is trying to do his best, who experiences ups and downs like anyone else. And perhaps that’s enough. But, maybe, just maybe, I need to accept the love when I get it.

Mar 24 2019

lone star.

I was exhausted, but it was time to go home.

I had been up for far too many hours, making sure I didn’t leave anything in my hotel. I crammed a hoodie into my big (and bright) ass suitcase and zipped it closed, then called my Uber. I didn’t have the energy for this; add in that my arriving flight was really rough and I already kind of don’t like planes, flying home bothered me a lot more than I’d ever admit.

I hurried downstairs when the Lyft arrived; I went to the front, but he was in the back. Once we got that straight, he hopped out of the car and ran up to me, taking my bag. Dude was tall as hell, like 6’6-6’7, lanky and West African, as evidenced by his accent. I get in the car and he’s pretty cool, even though I really don’t want to talk to anyone at 5 am; all I wanted to was somehow go to sleep and wake up back in NYC.

Once we realized we were both from New York, he started treating me like we had been friends forever, which is kind of a custom amongst black people from the city. New Yorkers are mean as shit, but when two cross paths far from home, it’s usually all love.

We’re riding and the first thing he wants to talk to me about is girls; this happens to me A LOT and I don’t know why. He’s telling me all this wild graphic shit about his female passengers having sex with him after his shifts, meeting women back in NYC, all this other shit. Im kind of evasive because I don’t know son, I have no desire to impress him with filth recaps and I spent pretty much the entire weekend with one woman, who showed me around the city (which I’ve never been to before) and was really sweet to me in a genuine way.

Here I was, riding to the airport, coming to terms with the emotions I was going through, this surging feeling of  “I’m into this girl, this is one of the best weekends I’ve ever had,” and what that means for me, who hasn’t REALLY felt anything close to this since 2015. I was uncomfortable, but in a good way, like a different version of myself was blooming, like these simultaneous feelings of caring, appreciation and endless yearning were changing me. All of this is in my mind while he’s playing me explicit videos of some girl back in NYC; he’s fucking my vibe up while showing me shit he absolutely shouldn’t, on some weird macho bonding shit.

I get out of the car, tell him peace, get my bag and leave. I rated him way too high on the app, mostly because I was just bewildered by that whole ride and was very out of sorts. He was talking my damn ear off, as I tried to piece together what was up with this medium crush that had certainly evolved into much more over the course of three days. I head into the airport and theres this pretty black girl behind me, kind of short, sort of caramel-ish. I nod and hold the door for her and feel her holding my gaze a little. I let her go on her merry way and we laughed at some random thing that I don’t remember. I remember how strange I felt, how the only thing that I was thinking was “we absolutely have to treat women better and think about how we engage with and think of them.” The driver talking about women as if they were just notches in a belt, just sexual conquests and little else was really getting to me.

I got on the plane and couldn’t shake this feeling of finality, like something was going to end,  like I’d never see this newfound object of my affection ever again, or something far less drastic but nonetheless important, the version of myself that overthought my own happiness. The former was pretty terrifying; the latter, way overdue.

Perhaps I’ve become afraid of things going my way.

By Robby Rav.
0
Mar 17 2019

the wrong way.

In 2017, I was about two years deep into writing professionally and finally quit my 9-5, that I hated, to pursue writing in a more complete way. The stars aligned for me and I got an opportunity to work somewhere “real,” a place that would give me valuable experience (and solid money) to write about music. I took the job and hit the ground running.

Career-wise, I was finally moving, but internally, I was a dumpster fire. I was still struggling badly with anxiety issues, triggered by the many things I went through prior to 2017: being unemployed for two years, 3 break ups (with 2 totally destroying me), becoming sworn enemies with my best friend, the endless sting of loneliness and more. All of the pain I was suffering through had taken a toll on me; I was callous. All those nights reading rejection emails, being extremely broke, while trying to face how alone I really was, along with being in such a dark and lonely state that I questioned my desire to exist, for the lack of better wording, fucked me up.  Even in moments of joy, I felt nearly nothing. I was emotionally spent.

My inability to “feel” things was hurting me in a multitude of ways. I didn’t really want to go out because of how depressed I was and I definitely didn’t want to talk about my life. I didn’t really have money, so the simplest of things became a struggle. Once I got hired,  I struggled to fit in at work because I was the “outsider” who was only there once a week and had far less industry experience that everyone else. So my life and career are changing, but I barely have any friends I trust, in or out of music. Then, my friends I came up with, they can’t really relate to what’s happening to me, and I can’t properly articulate it to them.

I didn’t know I was doing it at the time, but I was masking my struggles by getting too deep into the mix. Once I started to get a little money, I was either drunk too many days out of the weekend, or smoking too much weed. My life was just a blur of intoxication and sex, outside of my professional life; I thought doing too much would bring my youthful exuberance back. Too many of the women in my life didn’t treat me how I wanted to be treated, in addition to some of them being situations that were alive past their expiration date. I was having sex, just so I could feel wanted, to feel like I mattered. When you’re in an emotionally desperate state and use something like sex to try to fill that void, you accept, entertain and cause too much bullshit.  I was too sad and felt too worthless to even really notice new girls who liked me, so nothing was really going right.

One particular night when I was too drunk and too high. I was on the train going home and felt a wave of paranoia wash over me. I imagined my train derailing, which inched me towards having a panic attack; I was afraid I was going to have a full breakdown on the spot. Once I managed to calm myself down, I began to feel sad again. I realized I almost always felt sad once I sobered up; weed and alcohol didn’t erase that I was broke, lacking real affection in my life and concerned about how my career would play out. Poisoning my body wasn’t doing shit for me; I had to clean it all up. I spent a lot more time sober after this, once I became conscious of how self-destructive I was being. I definitely slowed down with the girls too, because I wasn’t feeling fulfilled; I felt empty after the escapades. That life just wasn’t for me, at the time.

I got let go from that job, got another one in a month, worked there for 2 months and got my current job, the place I really wanted to be. Those final 3 months of 2017 could have gone terribly for me, but from the minute I was let go, I truly believed in myself and knew that no matter what, I was going to be ok. The time had finally come that I could look back on my life and truly believe that I could get through anything, then I did it. To be fair, I’m not 100 percent as we speak, but being aware of how I stayed afloat while facing career and personal turmoil at the same time, I knew I could accomplish anything I wanted to.

Things worked out.

By Robby Rav.
6
Sep 28 2017

Subtraction By Subtraction.

It’s not hard to have sex. But know yourself before you indulge in it.

After my TRASH 2015 that included two rather bad splits and other low moments, I had to look in the mirror. What is it that I’m doing that gets me into these situations where I get tied up with a girl I like, then things just go sour?

My solution was not letting myself get so emotionally wrapped up in dating, to just chill, to just “have fun.” I’ve done this before; everything worked out, for the most part. This second go-round was disastrous, not in results or quality of sex, but in the long-term effect on my mindset.

It wasn’t that my approach changed, I was a little more subtle. I’m not really sleeping over, I’m not cuddling overly long, because I don’t want you to feel as if I’m trying to nudge you into a relationship. I’m not exactly a hopeless romantic (this is a lie), but I couldn’t really operate like this. I tried, I really did…but it was not me. I was having sex and holding back my emotions because I was tired of situations falling apart.

My newfound “strategy” definitely had some rough spots. Do you know how weird it is to have good sex but also think “wow I really enjoyed just laying there and talking to you after?” My life was lacking affection (and still is), and I couldn’t say how I felt out of fear of misconstruing things. I’m Steve Urkel masquerading as Stefan Urquelle, but I’m ACTUALLY both guys. My issue is I repressed the more emotional aspects of myself because I was tired of getting stuck in doomed pseudo-situationships. My actions must match my words, and in my head that came down to cutting out cuddling and other #smooth romantic shit that I really wanted to do. Maybe I was wrong.

When you taper down your emotions, you start to attract and pursue women who are on the same page. The problem there is, some of those girls don’t give a shit about you. They might enjoy having sex with you, MAYBE even like eating chicken with you beforehand, but you are of no importance besides your filth and ability to be on time. For some guys, this is a dream situation. I was one of those guys for a couple of months; then, it was trash. Making things worse, I have a bad habit of making situations better in my mind than what they actually are, which leads to disappointment.

Things had gotten so filthy that I said to myself “I wish I could go on a wholesome date.” All I was doing was working, going to the gym, getting drunk, and having mostly-emotionless sex. That is a very jarring change from my early 20s, when I was just hoping and wishing to get my wee-wee dampened.

In the midst of all the struggling, this is what I wanted. This is what I ALWAYS wanted. Even as a child, before I knew what sex or kissing or anything really was, I vividly remember telling my dad I wanted women to really like me. He told me it would happen, just do my damn homework. That was sound advice! But I eventually got there, and it forces you to look at yourself in ways you may not want to.

If multiple women are interested in you, thats great. But the reality is unless one particularly moves you, everyone else has an expiration date. The very poor handling of the pain of my past loves has kind of ruined my view; I couldn’t just relax and “live.” This has bled into a lot of other aspects of my life. If things are going well, I can already see when it’ll going start going poorly, and I tend to fixate on it.

I knew things needed to change this year, when I started to think “I am attracted to this girl and it’s not a sexually based thing.” We’ve done nothing. Not one date, no drunken kiss, NOTHIN. It was her personality, her earnest curiosity about me, and doing just enough to show interest but never making me feel like she’s swarming me. That’s slightly out of the ordinary for me nowadays; at some point in my life, women started doing too much as it came to me, and it bothered me.

Things went wrong somewhere, and I really think it started when I started to safeguard my emotions, for fear of misleading, because I didn’t want to get myself into something I didn’t want. And now, I’m deciding to be more like myself, and deal with things as they come.

 

Jun 6 2017

Songs I Like This Week! (Vol. 8)

And, just like that, I have returned.

Onto the songs.

Rich Homie Quan – Money Fold

 

At one point in my life, I was a RHQ stan. You can say it was due to RICH GANGGGGG running my life at the time or something else, but the guy was talented. He had a weird stretch where I just wasn’t feeling him, but 2017’s Back To The Basics is a nice comeback play. “Money Fold” reminds me of a previous song of his (“Real”) but it’s also good in its own right. Any song where Quan can kick it off with some outrageous shit (“I GOT ME LIKE….FIFTEEN HOES!!!) is gonna get me on board. The keys and the overall boisterousness of the beat harkens back to a looser, more confident Quan; back when things were all good between him and Young Thug.

The Boy Illinois – Dancing Like Diddy

 

I’ve known Illi for a long time now, thanks to Twitter and Niketalk (tap tap pull for my real ones). He’s always been talented and had a feel for making catchy music while still making it very clear he can rap. “Dancing Like Diddy” is no exception. The song is fun as hell, that looped vocal sample and Illi’s energy really make it an enjoyable listen. You can also tell he’s acutally going to dance in the video. He just signed to Priority Records, so you will certainly see and hear more of his work.

Gunna – Another Wave (ft. Duke and Shad Da God)

https://soundcloud.com/60gunnaysl/5another-wave-ft-duke-shad-da-godd-prod-playmaker

 

The first time I heard Gunna rap was on “Floyd Mayweather,” the song off of Young Thug’s Jeffery that was fire when it didn’t have Travis Scott yodeling on it. He really stood out, and didn’t sound ridiculous rapping next to Thug at all. I checked out his most recent tape Drip Season 2 this week, and its not bad at all. “Another Wave” sticks out to me; beat is great and Duke and Gunna have excellent chemistry. It’s just a good (semi) posse cut; “I just want some knees!” makes me laugh every time. The beat sounding like a Sonic The Hedgehog level with 808s seals the deal.

A.Chal – Perdóname

 

I interviewed A.CHAL about a year ago and have been a big fan since. His music is unique, he blends his Peruvian heritage/spiritual growth into his work; managing to stand out in the glut of moody alt-R&B singers is tough, but he has done it. “Perdóname” means “forgive me” in Spanish, so you can guess what the song is about. It’s a very syrupy, pained take on not having the same goals as a woman in your life. From the first verse, he expresses remorse over things falling apart because she wants more than he can give. By the second verse, he’s spinning out of control over the prospect of losing her. Dating is tough; no matter how smooth you are, your emotions will get tied up at some point. Check out A.CHAL’s latest project, ON GAZ.