Archive
I get the Twitters tweetin’.
I get the Tumblrs tumblin’.
Y’all get shot at.
@Reply me, homie.
I do the shooting.
See you street skeezers at (capsule).
I do the recruiting.
Did y’all motherfuckers see that collabo with Gents Quart?
Meta steez.
On some serious next level self-referential shit.
Crispyest drop in a minute for real, real.
You probably think that real G’s move in silence.
Like J-Wil.
Well, fuck that noise.
Or lack thereof.
My speakers go hammer.
Had no idea that work had even gone live.
I was busy tearing the motherfucking roof off Magic City.
Going ham with Brick Squad.
Juaquin and me.
Making it thunderstorm.
Silk squares raining down.
While these skrippers do it with no hands.
Radric and Otis.
Suited and booted.
Ed Greens looking all tough.
Lardini with the tags still hanging off.
Slapping the weave off your baby mama.
If she thinks it’s okay to put her paws on soft shoulders.
Neapolitan trapwear.
Where they do that at?
Dope boys.
Stay doe boy fresh.
And catch a few bodies.
When flat front lames try to front.
Sizzurp match my V-Neck.
Merino match the clique I claim.
Soo woo.
See y’all motherfuckers in hell.
Tumblr’s very own.
FYMW.
No hugs.
No kisses.
Private flights.
MacBook Airlines.
NYFW.
Shit’s lonely at 30,000 feet.
No team to put on.
No clique to rep.
No crew to call my own.
I fucks with me.
I’ve been on this dash too long.
And that starts to eat away at a blogger.
My main bitch turned her back on me.
I don’t have much to believe in.
So now I’m drowning in the purp.
Dove in head first.
Eggplant Cuci cashmere.
Violet suede Tods.
Orchid moleskin cargos.
Pansy patch pockets.
I’ve copped four grails this week.
I can explain.
Things are falling apart.
Crumbling.
Like Rogues.
When AC singed with The Signature.
Late night DM’s.
“You still working?”
Private messages.
“Are you blogging right now?”
One thing’s for certain.
My gift is my curse.
I left you unoriginal motherfuckers in my dust.
While you were blogging ‘bout Kirsten’s snaggle tooth.
And frontin’ with a full clip of gifs.
As if that was hard or some shit.
I was spitting that new new.
Snapping and blacking out.
Talking mad reckless.
Making these Internet gangsters my sons.
And now there’s nobody left to put some of this weight on.
The top of #menswear aint no place to raise a family.
Fuck that new Tumblr that you think you found.
This among many, many other messages of support.
Thank you
GW
I get the Twitters tweetin’.
I get the Tumblrs tumblin’.
Y’all get shot at.
@Reply me, homie.
I do the shooting.
See you street skeezers at (capsule).
I do the recruiting.
Did y’all motherfuckers see that collabo with Gents Quart?
Meta steez.
On some serious next level self-referential shit.
Crispyest drop in a minute for real, real.
You probably think that real G’s move in silence.
Like J-Wil.
Well, fuck that noise.
Or lack thereof.
My speakers go hammer.
Had no idea that work had even gone live.
I was busy tearing the motherfucking roof off Magic City.
Going ham with Brick Squad.
Juaquin and me.
Making it thunderstorm.
Silk squares raining down.
While these skrippers do it with no hands.
Radric and Otis.
Suited and booted.
Ed Greens looking all tough.
Lardini with the tags still hanging off.
Slapping the weave off your baby mama.
If she thinks it’s okay to put her paws on soft shoulders.
Neapolitan trapwear.
Where they do that at?
Dope boys.
Stay doe boy fresh.
And catch a few bodies.
When flat front lames try to front.
Sizzurp match my V-Neck.
Merino match the clique I claim.
Soo woo.
See y’all motherfuckers in hell.
Tumblr’s very own.
FYMW.
No hugs.
No kisses.
Private flights.
MacBook Airlines.
NYFW.
Shit’s lonely at 30,000 feet.
No team to put on.
No clique to rep.
No crew to call my own.
I fucks with me.
I’ve been on this dash too long.
And that starts to eat away at a blogger.
My main bitch turned her back on me.
I don’t have much to believe in.
So now I’m drowning in the purp.
Dove in head first.
Eggplant Cuci cashmere.
Violet suede Tods.
Orchid moleskin cargos.
Pansy patch pockets.
I’ve copped four grails this week.
I can explain.
Things are falling apart.
Crumbling.
Like Rogues.
When AC singed with The Signature.
Late night DM’s.
“You still working?”
Private messages.
“Are you blogging right now?”
One thing’s for certain.
My gift is my curse.
I left you unoriginal motherfuckers in my dust.
While you were blogging ‘bout Kirsten’s snaggle tooth.
And frontin’ with a full clip of gifs.
As if that was hard or some shit.
I was spitting that new new.
Snapping and blacking out.
Talking mad reckless.
Making these Internet gangsters my sons.
And now there’s nobody left to put some of this weight on.
The top of #menswear aint no place to raise a family.
Fuck that new Tumblr that you think you found.
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