On Rapping

I was never one of those kids who demanded attention for completing menial tasks, like peeing in the toilet without hitting the seat, or drinking water without it spilling down my chest, or even standing on one foot, demanding my mother, father, neighbor or brother drop what they’re doing and “look what I can do!” I was typically reserved, and if I peed in the toilet, I was privately proud of myself, while slightly disappointed that my brother wouldn’t be sitting in my urine.

I was, however, extremely bothered when I didn’t garner immediate recognition. For example, if my mother didn’t come in and pat me on the back for successfully putting my Legos back in the proper order, I would subtly hint at my notable accomplishment, and her calloused oversight.

“Soooo….uh, I, personally, noticed that the uh, Legos are noticeably absent this afternoon. I mean, not even a hint of Lego is happening in this living room right now. You know how annoying it is when you walk around barefoot, and step on one of those pointy rectangles, Mom? It’s atrocious. You’re welcome, and I forgive you in advance for your insensitivity.”

I would then demand Eggos with “the butter showing” and soaked in syrup, and my mom would ask me how I know what atrocious means. To that, I would reply, “Mooooooooooom! Could you come in here and help me wipe my bottom?” From the bathroom.

Anyway, the point is, I’ve never been one to toot my own horn. But only if you toot it for me. And if you don’t toot it for me, I am going to put my horn so close to your face, that you will either toot it out of annoyance, or because you finally think “you know what, this horn is pretty cool. I think I’ll toot it now.”

This is where I run into my biggest problems. I am really good at rapping. Like, really good. Not even just in the sense that I am better than the average person (which I am), or even better than your friend that raps (which I am) but, like, really good. This problem is further complicated by two things:

1.) Nobody will take me seriously. Ever.

2.) It is not yet verified, besides the select few people that have actually seen me rap, that I am, actually good.

I always wonder what the context is when Kanye or Childish Gambino come up with the next great line. You know, like, what was Kanye doing when he said “Killin y’all n***as on that lyrical shit/ mayonnaise colored Benz, I push Miracle Whips.

Was he making a sandwich? Driving his car? Both? Maybe he was running. My best ideas for raps come either when I am exercising, extremely excited about something, or, often times, both.

Three weeks ago, I got an iphone. It was, without question, one of the best things that have happened to me. After driving back from Sprint, I was in a state of sheer jubilation. My brother was driving, then it happened.

I spit flames for about two minutes—free-styling—one punch-line after the next. At one point, I think I started convulsing and drooling a little bit, but kept going, like any true rapper would, pushing through the adversity of my own saliva. I blacked out, but I think I remember my voice sounding kind of like my own, but a little deeper with a weird twang so if I said “dude” it would sound more like “Deuuuuwd.” I also did this weird thing with my hands where it looked like I was doing karate while mincing garlic. After my concluding line, which was undoubtedly something awesome, deep and clever at the same time, my brother looked at me like he’d just seen a ghost.

Thirty seconds of silence passed before he turned to me.

“It seriously bothers me that you’re so good at that,” he said.

I guess this most effectively sums up my ability to rap. I liken it to the general perception of body-builders. It’s impressive, and enticing enough to look for a bit, but your ability to respect them is impeded by the fact that they’re self-obsessed, fake-tanning assholes. In the same way that I am a 6’6 white kid under the illusion that he is the next Childish Gambino.

It must be noted, however, that although most people who’ve heard me rap insist that I am skilled, not everyone comes to this notion. For example, a few weeks ago, I rapped in front of about 10 people. It wasn’t a random free-style, but rather 20 minutes of random-off the top of my head free-association with anything and everything around me, in a somewhat paced, rhythmic fashion.

I was pretty sure I was awesome that night, but the next morning, I saw one of the people who listened to me, and she said:

“Last night you were ridiculous. Ridiculous.”

And it wasn’t the kind of ridiculous that people say when something is ridiculously awesome, but rather the ridiculous that people use to say you are ridiculous.

I shook this off pretty easily, though. Which isn’t an entirely good thing; now I take every opportunity to rap, in order to prove to myself and others that I am, indeed, a really good rapper. You can catch me rapping in class, on the toilet, to my friends, to my mom, to my brother, and mostly when I drive. Alone. If you have the chance, maybe you’ll hear me sometime. If not, wait till my album drops, and tell all your friends. Duh.