“A Slacker’s Guide to the Galaxy/Al Gore Rhythms and Choosing Your Genre Wisely”

Christopher Wallace once asked, “what’s beef?” Please, don’t comment on this, asking me about some guy with a sword. But speaking of…

Live by it and die by it. Just when you thought you escaped, they drill the music into your cranium — kinda like how, even years after, a simple phrase, “hard work,” is really an homage to cadence and call; early morning runs up Georgia hills, the asphalt barely wet, still, pre-dawn cool down, sponsored by the Big Lifter. A platoon of feet, pounding pavement in sync.

Meanwhile, the rain dances that short-circuit and circumvent reality can’t be blamed on Native Americans, anymore than understanding your lack of understanding. We’re standing on edges of Oculus cliffs. Young nggas virtually escaping reality with beans and Instagram stories, hooked.

The rhythm loves what your mind sees; you dance inside of yourself and in two swipes, it’s an extension.

It will twerk; it will throw hands. It will make you believe you need more length on your dick and BBLs have done away with everything real. They made you all buy Guinea pigs as pets, and then, have gone on to make your mind a hamster wheel.

The en vogue shit is still to give us something we can feel. The likes and comments and CashApp notifications — shit still get creamy about that dollar bill, ya’ll. But we only fans, can’t have it all. Priorities are recognized by tiers; and what you’re pitching in, that’s what this pricing is based on.

Yet and still, dove in like a baptism, a christening.

Got that Al Gore Rhythm.

Own ya stems, unplug and start listening.

We get what we seek; what he peeks, what we speak. And they’re trying to control our people and play on the emotions and trauma that they’ve taken painstaking steps to make sure you’re desensitized enough to chase your own hit recording.

But enough about the boring shit.

Back to the music.

(All power to the Creatives)

*Galaxy, Out*