While you’re deciding whether or not you’re going to vote for Obama because he’s cool with letting gays add to the divorce rate, I’m sitting here tweaking off No Doz because I told myself I’ve done to much Vyvanse in the past few weeks. I hate that I’m doing all these drugs for my/other people’s school work. Drugs are supposed to be what I do when I want to.

College is so stressful, and often fantasize about tragedies happening here but only for the minimum amount of seconds before it becomes the game plan.

I was supposed to graduate this year but I dropped out for two years to be happier, as if that is possible in a world that requires college, or quicker resources (rap deal, drug money, stripping) I read a thing about high numbers of PhD’s on food stamps, at least I’ve beat them at something.

I also think about being in a rapper’s clique -pause- obviously as the ghostwriter-drug adviser-thorough bitch, so I wouldn’t have to finish school either. I don’t give a fuck how smart I am and how hard I worked to get here, academia at the Ivy League level is for the blood sucking birds. (But I’m still here though?) Congratulations on your graduation class of 2012. If it sounds like I’m composed of sodium, I promise you I’m more like Pyrex.

But not just because Obama supports gay marriage, or a drug obsessed young black chick from the hood drops out of college and actually returns, are times changing.

In a country where racism is the only reason why drugs are illegal (cocaine was in everything before it was found to cause black men to “rape” white women, which can’t be true because coke + strong liquor makes your dick soft) we now see young white children calling themselves “trill” — a term that emerged out of an organic southern, Black artistic culture, heavily influenced by drug usage. The irony of it all is too beautiful not hate though.

America’s and my drugs of choice are prescription and it makes perfect god damn sense. Rest in Peace Whitney Houston. I feel horrible because I got a gang of Flexerils (found in her system) and I been taking them even though they’re corny. I should save them for a toothache. I tweeted the other day the importance of downloading the Web MD app, knowing a drug’s half life and monitoring your alcohol intake while on them beans. Smoke all the weed you want but chill on the drinking and you won’t black out or have to pay $750 fucking dollars for an ambulance ride to the hospital.

When I felt like I had to leave Facebook, I knew the world was over. The internet had previously never spoke to me in such a way that required a life change. It’s also disgusting to call deading FB a “life change,” but less disgusting since I’ve made thousands off of social media. None of which I saved, all of which I flossed on all you with.

Facebook may be attempting to take over the world, and we may be dying really soon or whatever but until that moment I’m not changing most things about myself. Inevitable transformation is due and accepted but shapeshifting is never my style.

I’m going to keep on thugging out amongst collegiate crews and you all keep on doing whatever you’re doing but know that change is coming;  if you don’t feel that, I don’t feel you.

I LOVE MYSELF. AND I REDEEM DAILY FOR ALL THE TIMES I DID NOT.

“God bless America, never been to Colombia. So, I’ma need one of you to get the work to Colombia.”

-JEEZY

Ever since the first day of 3rd grade when my mom sent me to school with a Nokia cell phone and a Louis Vuitton messenger bag; I knew, that flexing was not an option.

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It’s that time again. I’m writing essays/papers/writing assignments for my collegiate kinfolk. My prices are pretty sweet, I acknowledge the ongoing economic struggle most of us are faced with, and if I fucks with you I will work with you — if you need work done. Mention the word “Pyrex” for a $5 off coupon good until October.

serious inquiries bchanel718@gmail.com

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“Is it me or am I tripping? Them foes on my phone when I talk I hear echos in the background, homes.” 

- Juaquin Bertholimule Malphur

Hating on me ain’t gon help your come up.

I’m in awe of your face, for it is not rare to catch me staring as if I’m waiting for words to emerge from it. Pleasure comes from admiring the curvature of your lips, gassed off of the fact that they’re mine to kiss.

“I’m from the era where we pay attention to everything you got on: your jewelry, how you rhyme, every word that’s coming out your mouth, your hairstyle, and everything, because we want to see your type of style. We’re checking you out. How you lace your shoes, every fine detail, we pay attention to. Because in that era everybody was unique.”  - PRODIGY 

 I got heart like EBT vegetables that stay wilted like they were Valentine’s Day roses trapped between the pages of

a twice-before-opened bible under the bed in your

grandmothers crib.

Quench a nigga’s thirst and satisfy his sweet-tooth like quarter waters. Rip off my foil, unveil me for the angel that I am. Not the bitch I portray. Now drink up.

I’m the flame from the lighter burning the slim jim you hold while you’re posted on the block. I make everything more appetizing than it should be. I spread along like an indulging lotion, moisturizing and pleasing. Learn to appreciate.

My face is the day that fresh-sealed-singular-dutches came to the hood. A pleasant change from what you’re used to — I can never get stale. No matter how close you play me.

My friendship is the bodega. Inferior ones cuss me and swear they’ll never shop here again. They’re upset because their kind only visits between the hours of 11PM to 5 AM when you might could catch me at the window but the door ain’t always open. I ain’t fucking witcha.

My thighs are ham hocks edible enough for Allah himself to feast upon. My clothes are neat like the bean-pie-slanger’s bow-ties and I’m thick but never sloppy.

My thoughts are the instantly returning hunger after four chicken wings and rice immediately following the itis of course. They are inevitable and can be dangerous to entertain.

My lips, what’s to say about them that cannot be thought by just looking. The gum from strawberry blowpops gets stuck to them, often.

I have no shame in being as undeniably black and sweet as

sweet potato pudding with marshmallows crammed atop.