I enjoy the freedom that Twitter affords me. I can be as random as I want to be, and give myself wholly to reckless tangents of thought without fear of reprimand or reprise. From time to time, I vent about things that I find to be illogical. However, 140 characters is frustratingly restricting. Behold, the solution.
I realized the other day that Pusha-T is the only man still sporting french braids that I don’t poke fun at. It’s not possible. I can’t do it. He’s too nice with it. Every bar and every cadence. So disarmingly immaculate. Here is my infatuation with Clipse: of all the people that rap about crack cocaine, they are the only ones that seem competent enough to actually cook it. From what I can gather, it’s a rather convoluted and meticulous process, one that I can’t see certain rappers pulling off without a hitch. For instance, I could see Gucci Mane “getting sloppy with the pots.”
I’ve yet to get a tattoo because I haven’t found or drawn any artwork that I’m willing to commit to for life. The commitment becomes even more binding the more visible the location of the aforementioned artwork. By this logic, a tattoo on the face is the most serious commitment one can make. Til death do you part. An intellectually potent man does not get a tattoo on his face of an ice cream cone. With lightning bolts. And a face. What’s more, it was poorly drawn. I wouldn’t let Michelangelo recreate the Sistine Chapel on my face. Let alone let someone reproduce the scrawl of a kindergarten arts and crafts class on it. He should have considered the end of his rap career; which I can assure is imminent (how imminent, I cannot say); how will he find work? Who will hire him? He should plead insanity every time he violates probation. He’d get off every time. But then again, it’s a free country. And three cheers for sweet self expression.