22

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It's three days till my birthday and I still didn't want to do anything special.

I'm not trying to say my birthday isn't special, but it's just that I'm turning 20, I'll turn up when I'm 21.

I've also been trying to stop selling weed, only because the game out here is getting risky. More people are selling, more people are getting caught.

I don't need that to be me.

I talked to my probation officer the other day, only having about a couple months left of this shit.

I was getting pretty tired of the "random" drug tests, which was actually held every other week at the local precinct.

I was at the studio with Imani's uncle who was tying to help me figure out what beat I should spit to.

"I've been feeling pretty angry lately, you know everything that's been going on. Between my little brother having his outbreaks at school (which means I have to go get him, and he does this in the worst possible times) to these niggas out here wanting my head!" I said loudly in annoyance.

I didn't specify on who, because after all, Trippie is related to Mr.Ernie.

Him and his little friends been real petty over social media when it came to me. My song about Imani got a lot of clout and my platforms have been jumping, well, except for my Tumblr.

My Tumblr feels more personal if you want me to be honest. When I'm on there, I feel like the people I respond to are more genuine.

I'm at around 300k on Instagram and 100k less than that on Twitter, and my Snapchat stays jumping.

"Do you want to do a boombox rap?" Ernie asked me as I walked into the room that had the microphone.

I screwed up my face, shaking my head no.

"Why not? Bring it back to '08 real quick." Ernie laughed, playing the audio.

I bumped my head to the beat and told him to hit the record button. He restarted it and I let the first two eight counts go.

I started speaking whatever came to my mind, coming off more aggressive.

When I finished the first verse, he was about to stop the beat and started shaking my head no.

I let the next 4 eight counts go, trying to figure out how I wanted my second verse to go.

I started to spit more aggressively, my accent came out a little too. My eyes were squeezed shut while rapping, I just felt raw.

I took the headphones off and grabbed my bottle of water, watching Ernie clapping from the outside.

I started to laugh at his reaction. If I was being completely honest I don't know what I just rapped about.

Ernie turned on his mic from the outside and started to speak.

"That my man is what you call art, okay? When smooth around the rough edges, this is a hit my boy-"

"No, leave it choppy. That adds more originality to it." I said, automatically disagreeing with him.

We went back and forth for about five minutes, every time we're trying to make tracks he never wants to listen.

We always end up making compromises though.

He let me do what I originally wanted and I stick my tongue out at him, happy that I got what I want.

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