Though I technically didn't grow up in rags (Momma called it Second Hand Chic) and in the eyes of those I've left behind in small floundering towns I guess one could say I've "made it" ...but I still have a difficult time assessing my current situation and pinning myself with a blue ribbon. Unless of course it's a Pabst.
There's an ever-present heaviness. It's the weight of the air, it's tar on the side walks, it's the chips on everybody's shoulders. It's easy to get caught up in the ease and familiarity of the banal. Straight chillin', straight livin'. Chris Wallace chased paper flippin' rocks on the streets of BedStuy. I'm pushin' paper just so I can live on the streets of BedStuy. Funny how shit works out sometimes.
Biggie slipped up a few times and shit went down. But somehow he made it. And by "somehow" I mean Puffy. And I wish I had my own Puffy. I wish my amazing unemployed friends had a Puffy. I wish my sister who can't catch a break had a Puffy. And my mom, probably the least malicious and transparently innocent person I've ever met...she deserves like 3 or 4 Puffys. Puffy saw that hard work paid off. Puffy got in the game, changed the rules, and then made the game his bitch.
But that just ain't how shit is. We can't all have our genies in bottles, our Sean Combs in the studios, and our boys taking the fall for us. All we can do is assemble our Junior Mafia, fight over who gets to be Lil Kim, and try and make shit pop off. And that's what I aim to do.
And if ya don't know, now ya know, N*gga.
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