When did mediocrity and banality become a good image for your children?

-Bill Hicks

Sufficed to say: this is the present state of most music right now. Banality is copious and so many people find it worth coping with. But where is the love of life is bullshit is accepted? The more I find out about the opinions of people who keep up with modern rap and enjoy a lot of it, the more I see they’ve basically given up on it being any better. The 2pacs, the Wu-Tangs, the Deep Puddle Dynamics, they’re nowhere to be found. What you have instead are individuals keeping rhythm with hip hop as an art form and structure wherein rules are to be followed to produce honorable art. Rappers rhyme, make up some silly metaphors, display some nonchalance and arrogance, and call that shit a day. People soak it up because thats what hip hop is externally. But the passion is lost. ANd it is even lost in the fans. People are, as far as I can see, just fucking apologizing for wack shit. They’ll say not every rapper has to be the greatest. Well who the fuck is even great anymore??? jesus christ. I do feel jaded, but I’m jaded by an incredibly redundant society recycling garbage; by a elementally secluded artform whose inhabitants refuse to help the genre grow; by a society producing whatever profits most. Yet I am the fool for not finding enduring sources of joy here. No fucking way that makes sense.

I posit the killer of hip hop to be...

(some of) white america.

far as i can tell, the history of hip hop went something like this: negros find new way to express discontent, hip hop gains notoriety, people who don’t concur with or want to hear the primary message of negros (LOLOL LIVIN THE HOOD KINDA SUCKS BRO) favor less depressing messages - messages white america/non-broke motherfuckers can relate to. those people get rich and become the notable frontmen and women of the genre, record labels only sign those losers, those losers get rich because white america/non-broke motherfuckers are a larger portion of america’s population than negros. Selling this much means they have the more power in the industry (yay capitalism) and can influence (if not dictate) the way people view them. This power to influence has led to establishing both gritty and rich images of rappers that aren’t either. Then after about a decade of this: all you get are motherfuckers obsessed with the art as a form, motherfuckers only trying to be lyrical and dope without a message - people who can’t express what those pioneering negros expressed because these new motherfuckers haven’t lived that life.

and what it ultimately produces is a narcissistic culture obsessed with possessions because somewhere along the line the dreams of the poor, to be rich, became the commonality uniting anyone and everyone who weren’t the people selling the music. and who were those people?!!? anyone?!!? ANYONE?!!? AHHH THATS RIGHT, WHITE PEOPLE!

It bears worth also mentioning that this is what happened with punk/hardcore. motherfuckers hopped on board and used a set of aesthetics and styles to express ideas that were completely disassociated with the original principles of punk/hardcore.

“It means stupid, thats what optimistic means, you know. It means stupid. AN optimist is someone who says “hey…maybe something nice will happen!”, why the FUCK would anything ‘nice’ ever happen? What are you stupid??” - Louis CK

I love her so much it makes me want to cry.

I have wanted some women so completely. I've desired with all that I am composed of. Yet, I come away with nothing. It takes a sturdy foundation of courage to need. I admire a man who is willing to beg a woman for affection and love more than a man who carries on at the slightest sign of disinterest. Our impatient lives are being wasted. WE're running through lifetimes and burgeoning a carelessness that only preserves the self. Such a shame, such a waste. Such a loss. How am I to be there for a woman if she believes she neither needs a man or that she has the time to develop love? I'm full of a bitterness that unravels with the days. I'm standing outside myself, watching a train wreck become. I cannot believe the events I have endured as well as initiated. I am ashamed of myself; my mistakes, my uxoriousness, all of it. I've begged for fondness from fucking idiots. Purely stupid individuals that wish for a dream. Reality doesn't always fucking suck, I've tried to be proof of such to some. Christ. I''m done with everything. The only real question my heart, my soul, the quintessential portion of my mind asks is why continue. And I am running out of reasons. To be real, the only reason I have left is the minuscule fact that someone may love me as I love them, someone may consider - with depth and gratitude - the possibility that two human beings together leads to greater passion than a life of singularity. But who among the wanna be pop princesses and reckless females would wish for the monotony of my unwavering interest? I'd have to be someone completely not me to even rouse the interest of a female; dry ice or female interest: I cannot hold either. I'm holding on to my self against my will. The weight of me leaves my cavs week. I'm burning memories to sustain eligibility for love. Yet all my actions are illegible for the common woman and both extreme types: the extremely lonely and the extremely extroverted. I'm nothing to all women, wholly disregarded by the species. Should I continue to watch their beauty and gaze longingly? To swivel eyes with breasts and asses, to hold my seed inside with diligence so that one day I may break free in the arms of someone who actually loves me? Excuses. Every reason I have to continue is an excuse.