Cold hands, cold heart

I am not sure how I developed this reputation at present but those surrounding me believe that I am a polite, delightfully reserved person. Never would I have thought this day possible. Yet if I disassemble the past few weeks, I realize this: I live my life in fear. Fear of what offense thing I might say. Fear of what obvious judgment I might throw around. Fear of what embarrassing moment might inflict its cruelty upon me. FEAR. It is a trepidation that only a greed so avaricious could burden me because truth be told I don’t give an effffff what fools like these think. I let shadows of my rightful nature creep out (naturally, for how else would representations of myself move about) which then cast a shadowy suspicion on the preconceived opinions. As I play rap music, I am flooded with statements of disbelief and recalibrating judgment: “I would have never pinned you as the type to like this kind of music.” In moments such as these, it is an internal struggle—a chasm, if I may be so bold—to keep the callous hip pop (no, not hip hop) and side-eye under wraps. Betch, please.

Don’t make me justified my thug.