Saturday, November 13, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Out There, not the-n
Created a blog for the consideration of others but I guess it's a good thing because I am just tryna to make it.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Festivities Rushing
5 may 2010
During the fall of six o’clock, Teddy the Tractable observed the many marital potentials throughout the pit. A father tying three kids to his shirt hem and cuff, eyes darting. He seemed portent to snap. His temporal vein was as bright as the bags under his eyes and his daughter vibrated hyperactively with a balloon disturbing the spirit. Not an Elektra Complex, though. Teddy knew it wasn't that. The baby in the carriage, probably just about a year, sucked on its thumb, which was attached to a tiny bottle. The girl dribbled the rubber on his dangling chain of keys and he eyed her, then huffed, then eyed a blank space that provided patience. Teddy rubbed the ringing out his ears. Perhaps his daughter would grow into him. He rose from the energy. Inflation afloat that stressed the serenity was a supplement to her nomination as well. Moments passed and his patience was already as cadaverous as the escalator being penetrated by the carriage. He feared fearing solitude, which would antagonize him with ideas of fear itself. It was a cycle at six o’clock, he knew. He sat in the pit, birthing the settlement of SPD he was home to. His own lethargy; his reassurance. He knew. A woman’s diamonds met the festive lights hanging from the second-storey balcony and he saw her flapper-painted face. Red lipstick, bright mouth, moderate smoke eyes. Her buttons pinned tight to her pea coat; her nails flossed like candy displays on Springdale in 1940. But she resembled strength. Sternness struck and stuck. The genetic strength of original labor workers; the supposed demeanor of that sooty mangabey. And her skin slid roughly under the tending to and creams. Beneath the feminism so present in gripping and grabbing husky crops and hauling them in sweaty bags for more humid work by their breeding mates, or husbands. Perhaps it was the ladylikeness of a civilly moving urban theatre arts performer, muscles cut through the forearm and the thighs, body probably stiff in a summer dress no matter the product radiance. They were all fighting for civility. Her arms were outspread in the relation of the Venn Diagram. But on the side where beating was less through love, the Nightingale rocked their equal distinction and performance. And they developed the same bone structure and they gave the same strength. Teddy shuddered, deciding that she was fading in potential. A fragile woman rushed in maroon pants. He let her go. He scratched his dirty head and carved the residue from his nails. Everything was yellow. The conurbation combusted like the West Side of town in 1994. Everything was far from flaccid. Eyes opened, necks sturdy. When the time arrived, he’d wonder how he succeeded a point so rejected; so low. She hadn’t even heard his voice, which would have drawn her in, let alone. He liked to believe he was well spoken. Monotonous and enunciating. She wouldn’t suspect the appearance but the appeal. But it was never the appeal but the impression. His ticket read ten o’clock when the matinee was over. A date. Loneliness inviting. Lowliness inviting. A big, serene date, balloons disturbing between but eventually setting his amorous masculinity free. Combustion like in 1994; jocularity like in 1940. He rubbed the ringing out his ears and smoothed his hair parted to the left. He saw purple at the corner of his eye. It was seven o’clock already. A whole day’s passed. Chimes rang. He flashed. Trickery understandably afloat. Teenagers planning on retreating to the garage.
During the fall of six o’clock, Teddy the Tractable observed the many marital potentials throughout the pit. A father tying three kids to his shirt hem and cuff, eyes darting. He seemed portent to snap. His temporal vein was as bright as the bags under his eyes and his daughter vibrated hyperactively with a balloon disturbing the spirit. Not an Elektra Complex, though. Teddy knew it wasn't that. The baby in the carriage, probably just about a year, sucked on its thumb, which was attached to a tiny bottle. The girl dribbled the rubber on his dangling chain of keys and he eyed her, then huffed, then eyed a blank space that provided patience. Teddy rubbed the ringing out his ears. Perhaps his daughter would grow into him. He rose from the energy. Inflation afloat that stressed the serenity was a supplement to her nomination as well. Moments passed and his patience was already as cadaverous as the escalator being penetrated by the carriage. He feared fearing solitude, which would antagonize him with ideas of fear itself. It was a cycle at six o’clock, he knew. He sat in the pit, birthing the settlement of SPD he was home to. His own lethargy; his reassurance. He knew. A woman’s diamonds met the festive lights hanging from the second-storey balcony and he saw her flapper-painted face. Red lipstick, bright mouth, moderate smoke eyes. Her buttons pinned tight to her pea coat; her nails flossed like candy displays on Springdale in 1940. But she resembled strength. Sternness struck and stuck. The genetic strength of original labor workers; the supposed demeanor of that sooty mangabey. And her skin slid roughly under the tending to and creams. Beneath the feminism so present in gripping and grabbing husky crops and hauling them in sweaty bags for more humid work by their breeding mates, or husbands. Perhaps it was the ladylikeness of a civilly moving urban theatre arts performer, muscles cut through the forearm and the thighs, body probably stiff in a summer dress no matter the product radiance. They were all fighting for civility. Her arms were outspread in the relation of the Venn Diagram. But on the side where beating was less through love, the Nightingale rocked their equal distinction and performance. And they developed the same bone structure and they gave the same strength. Teddy shuddered, deciding that she was fading in potential. A fragile woman rushed in maroon pants. He let her go. He scratched his dirty head and carved the residue from his nails. Everything was yellow. The conurbation combusted like the West Side of town in 1994. Everything was far from flaccid. Eyes opened, necks sturdy. When the time arrived, he’d wonder how he succeeded a point so rejected; so low. She hadn’t even heard his voice, which would have drawn her in, let alone. He liked to believe he was well spoken. Monotonous and enunciating. She wouldn’t suspect the appearance but the appeal. But it was never the appeal but the impression. His ticket read ten o’clock when the matinee was over. A date. Loneliness inviting. Lowliness inviting. A big, serene date, balloons disturbing between but eventually setting his amorous masculinity free. Combustion like in 1994; jocularity like in 1940. He rubbed the ringing out his ears and smoothed his hair parted to the left. He saw purple at the corner of his eye. It was seven o’clock already. A whole day’s passed. Chimes rang. He flashed. Trickery understandably afloat. Teenagers planning on retreating to the garage.
The Trailer Home
19 may 2010
It was on a Wednesday when he realized he didn’t want to be with me anymore. That Wednesday seven weeks directly after he was exonerated. And my hair hung over my face, dripping into a curl from the happy joke the boys rose from. The bucket sat in the corner, seemingly untouched. The paint was on me. And they laughed and they chuckled. I was red with benzene. He never promised this wouldn’t happen. The seven months he gave to me and the fives months we retreated never promised a cold release of red accusations and fury. The fury that coated; the fury I questioned. I was alone always. I felt stupid, to express it brunt. I felt a relapse. He was better and grown and I told him I’d kiss him because we had intimate history. He asked what I’d do and I reassured we were comfortable still. I reassured because we had a spirit. He lifted to know he’d egress easily. As did the chortles and the snickers. Someone choked on his euphoria. My hair dried stiff at the thought of me lying in the grass, the first day in a long time. Him crawling over and owning a smooch on me and returning to something more worth distraction. I looked into the sky, knowing that was how we belonged. Comfort and ease. Sure, ease but not an egress. He already had me. Or I let him think he was coming and going. He was there all along. No, he was coming and going. He trotted in and trotted out and I was his fallacy of hope; a fallacy of his hope. I love you like in texts. I love you like with levity. But I knew that. I just didn’t think its extremity was so juvenile; so middle school. So rageful. I tried. I was one of two set in mind. I was devoted to a bull imitator and the bull imitator’s friends. But all I want is my notebook back because I’ve realized that I consider it as important as he does his red bucket.
It was on a Wednesday when he realized he didn’t want to be with me anymore. That Wednesday seven weeks directly after he was exonerated. And my hair hung over my face, dripping into a curl from the happy joke the boys rose from. The bucket sat in the corner, seemingly untouched. The paint was on me. And they laughed and they chuckled. I was red with benzene. He never promised this wouldn’t happen. The seven months he gave to me and the fives months we retreated never promised a cold release of red accusations and fury. The fury that coated; the fury I questioned. I was alone always. I felt stupid, to express it brunt. I felt a relapse. He was better and grown and I told him I’d kiss him because we had intimate history. He asked what I’d do and I reassured we were comfortable still. I reassured because we had a spirit. He lifted to know he’d egress easily. As did the chortles and the snickers. Someone choked on his euphoria. My hair dried stiff at the thought of me lying in the grass, the first day in a long time. Him crawling over and owning a smooch on me and returning to something more worth distraction. I looked into the sky, knowing that was how we belonged. Comfort and ease. Sure, ease but not an egress. He already had me. Or I let him think he was coming and going. He was there all along. No, he was coming and going. He trotted in and trotted out and I was his fallacy of hope; a fallacy of his hope. I love you like in texts. I love you like with levity. But I knew that. I just didn’t think its extremity was so juvenile; so middle school. So rageful. I tried. I was one of two set in mind. I was devoted to a bull imitator and the bull imitator’s friends. But all I want is my notebook back because I’ve realized that I consider it as important as he does his red bucket.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Learned
What I’ve realized is that he’s a mouse. He’s like one of those who shoot black beads of sweat when portent to be contained because he’s trapped in a corner. Four walls are a horror. There’s no reason for him to be contained. In all the grade school years he had absorbed, he surely accomplished the dames. He gave interest while the rest paid it until he reached that point perceived as a peak because he was with it. Then he was complete. So he took the predator back and she gave him all she had. You know, he’s more like a shark; a loan shark. Because he was at that peak and he was ready to pay interest and she paid all the era permitted her to and hoped serving interest would compensate still. But he felt insouciant and she lost her house. And his substance began to wane. And his interest was still available but his concentration complained and she multiplied some focus and swimming began to stop and the suffocation began to bead. And she knew she didn’t like him. He fibbed intentions. How great to seem to love her company like going to see Ironman 2 and that art show together. But Alice in Wonderland and that diluted party was a cherished invite. Maybe some days he found her name in passing, automatically insisting that she was okay, which hurt her more to infer. She was his insignificant. Their relations were inconsequential unless his wanker felt insight. She wouldn’t go an event without him. She wondered if he’d still go to afterprom. Probably, if it included other kids from grade school. Yeah, she came from a different coast where you learned not to remember who was in your freshman classes. But he was proactively focused and everything he said was dogmatic and went. And others saw her as aggravated and bent out of shape. And she saw him as inherent. That was it. She loved the whole person he was. She loathed the idea of being the one who extracted his fear and his stubbornness; remained in the free spectrum of interest with payments to complement his competence, paying all that the era permitted her to, hoping it would compensate. From it, it was enough. She saw him as inherent so she was pliant. That was the reason. He was wholly the person she amateurely held fervid feelings for; she thought she was, too. But she realized that he, being repetitive to the foundation that made her stumble into hate, was all she clutched alike. Not a filler but a shirt cuff she had to pursue, suffocating and choking with mere obligation. Yeah, he was like a dog, panting beads of saliva, needing a friend. No she was like a dog. Kicked and cuddled and kicked. They were dogs, not neutered, chumming while being the best of someone else more worth it. And I just want my notebook back.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, September 18, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Formspring
A private assessment site sometimes used for q&a. People tell or ask, you comment or answer via blog. In this labrinyth of trendy technology, interviewing and posting is but a waft of a sigh. It's cool for recreation but as ridiculous as calling blogging a profession.
mine
responses might not be on the immediate page
mine
responses might not be on the immediate page
Saturday, August 29, 2009
I Just Want My Pants Back
Last year, around this time, summertime dubbed laziness and my sister and my mother purchased a book of everyone’s choice. I got I Just Want My Pans Back by David J. Rosen, which was unanimous in my pros against my cynicism against a triplet of MTV books. I guess the lack of a underlining mainstream and the general reality of the plot captured me. I enjoyed the typical egression of tying the climax into an epiphany because his realistic and well-written scenarios kept me turning. The banter at the bar, the leisure at his job, the opinions of his refrigerator intercourse. I saw myself in a nook and cranny as he glided down Nolita, inebriated by the opaque lights and other elements of intake. His similes were modern as he comically related back to renown figures. I interpreted his relationship with his relic neighbor Patty to be a little Finding Forrester but I appreciated the characterization, nevertheless. I’d have been disappointed if he was rolling blunts with his relatable, same-page neighbor. Not to mention the actual growth one gains when surrounding himself with a more traversed and conversant person. Rosen did his literary work and deemed himself a recipient of excelling in natural creativity. I advise this novel and the movie when I make it.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Harness
For updates on the original populars. Gaga, Lohan, Spears and the sun of the industry that gets revolved around and that sets on their asses.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Psymun Says
Tangled, effortless, and effective in all, Psymun is the epitome of the future of psychedelic hip hop. He centers his music on nostalgic moods that remind listeners of A Tribe Called Quest and Blu & Exile. "[Below the Heavens] is where I get most of my inspiration and it's my favorite album of all time." he's said. Personally, I'm grateful he's blessed my iPod with such hip hop value. Although he doesn't anticipate the pushy beats handed to radio stations and recycled to the mainstream of the music industry, he's innovative and progressive in his calm ear for music. His beats surmount aggression and the typical riffs heard during urban programs. 
This young aspirer, originally from St. Paul, Minnesota, now resides in Hudson, Badger-State Wisconsin and is as sturdy as the animal. The glory of his work is owed to his Ableton Live and Korg Ms2000b Synthsizer, where he solely works in his room. Typically, he exerts the time spent on a sitcom or a drama to complete and perfect a beat. He's cautious about his musical labor, and better kept than plagiarized because his manifesting precision is of great quality. His work include unfinishedbusiness602, unfinishedbusiness622, and his creatively tweaked version of "We've Got the Jazz". Although he's solitaire, he's produced for Co$$ and Prof. He turgidly describes his work as "dope." I call them gray with an impact like no other hip hop advancement. He makes tones easy to freestyle to, slow enough to flow to, and soft enough to set the surroundings to. Psymun doesn't have to say anything; however, you would once you open your ears to his instrumentals and versioned covers. As numerous workers in this genre of the industry would say, "he's swaggerific."
This young aspirer, originally from St. Paul, Minnesota, now resides in Hudson, Badger-State Wisconsin and is as sturdy as the animal. The glory of his work is owed to his Ableton Live and Korg Ms2000b Synthsizer, where he solely works in his room. Typically, he exerts the time spent on a sitcom or a drama to complete and perfect a beat. He's cautious about his musical labor, and better kept than plagiarized because his manifesting precision is of great quality. His work include unfinishedbusiness602, unfinishedbusiness622, and his creatively tweaked version of "We've Got the Jazz". Although he's solitaire, he's produced for Co$$ and Prof. He turgidly describes his work as "dope." I call them gray with an impact like no other hip hop advancement. He makes tones easy to freestyle to, slow enough to flow to, and soft enough to set the surroundings to. Psymun doesn't have to say anything; however, you would once you open your ears to his instrumentals and versioned covers. As numerous workers in this genre of the industry would say, "he's swaggerific."
Thursday, August 6, 2009
musical movement so stiff
- The Bronx
- Waxplotation Artists (recommended by adult swim)
- Ima Robot
- GCH (of course)
- The Morning Of
- The Falling
- CRAFT Club
- Hush Hush Commotion (more upbeat and musical)
- Chromeo
- The Thermals (more grunge-post areno rock)
- Brooklynati (very well done but bitten)
- WAZ (grey’s anatomy, nuff said)
- Sam Sparro
- The Mainland (snow patrol meets counting crows)
- Diminishing Returns (if you like melacholic noise)
- ODDISEE (authentica than a bih, yesuh but a little ‘03)
- Count Your Blessings (just another new millenium punk band)
- Otenki (“)
- The Vegas Report (if you like band of horses)
- William Fitzsimmons (if you like jason mraz meets acoustic allthetime)
- 3OH!3 (the hellen keller thing wasn’t cool)
- Arrica Rose (would sound better over a romantic denouement)
- Colour Revolt (great, no question)
- NEEDTOBREATHE (just got chills)
- Fight Fair (boys like girls)
- No Good People (another fuse recipient)
- Crown City Rockers (ger-rate, just.. no intro please)
- GOOT (so early november, and never attempt a john mayer cover)
- Ben Lee (stay on vh1)
- 2AM CLUB (i bet they look as good performing)
- Kings of Leon (is this a discussion?)
- Kanye West
- Pillow Theory (if you like thoughtless screamo lyrics..)
- Cassie Steele (i don’t believe it)
- Nobody (always wanted to blog him but his music’s never up)
- Ray Lamontagne
- J*Davey (they practically made it)
- Behn (really standard but mystic and good)
- P.O.D. (sure..)
- Fall Short (an old friend of mine, idevenk if they still play)
- Sir Michael of the Rocks (cool kid)
- HOOL (great folk, i’d dl)
- George Tandy Jr. (another bet hit)
- Daniel Strider (typical indie-pop)
- Array (” but i actually like the riffs a little more)
- Ricardo Malone (hardcore french melodrama)
- Maveric (i hate when you all talk over the intro)
- Jesse Passage (pop-folk needed in a cute sundane short)
- Tepr (yesss)
- Josh Netsky (poppy ballroom psychedelic.. he’s skrate)
- Kelsey and the Chaos! (joan jett)
- Hope (is awesome, introduced twice)
- RJD2 (already know)
- J Songz (grew up with this kid)
- Releef (same as fall short)
- DOOM (mf)
- Wiz Khalifa (listen to take away)
- The Boys After (on itunes nowww)
- Awkward Silence (pearl jam meets wth is concrete)
- YELLE
- Lindsay Lohan
- Sunday Night Scene (not tsh but he tries)
- Amos Lee
- Shino (yesuh)
- Jose Gonzales
- Sneakyness (from da ford so of course i gotta repsent)
- Scott Joseph Phares
- Amie Miriello (myspace celebrity)
- Amel Larrieux
- everett thomas (great voice, remember him)
- freddy hernandez (great covers)
- The Secret Handshake
- Nice Guys Finish First (stay on staynow)
- Guillermo Sohrya (youtube coverer, sweet ass voice)
- Refrag (so much originality)
- Samantha Ronson
- SHINE (a softer stone temple pilots)
- Owner
- April Cover (pop-punk, eh..)
- Michael Jackson (and all the hype)
- Tyler is Tizz (pop-acoustic and all the whining, eh..)
- Janelle Monae
- French Cowboy (western touch but not western in what is necessary)
- Obfusc (well done electro-indie)
- Zewdy (she covers well)
- Airto (he “)
- J.Pinder (a rapper)
- Oh, Hush! (only to shop to)
- direct connect (idk)
- Diddy
- GMK (he’s cordial)
- Potent Da RockStar (intense)
- LiCKS the Super Producer (experimental hip hop)
- SFH (hardcore rap producer)
- Subliminal Camp (lyrical and progressive hip hop)
- Brikkk the Super Natural (went to junior high with this kid)
- Raphael Saadiq
- Brandon Hines (make you wanna bite your lower lip)
- Durand Bernarr
- The Energy (sound stereotypical and a little placebo)
- King ST (lmao)
- Little Dragon
- Ryan Sallis (electronic folk, vedie nicee)
- Brenda Maclean (effortless but effective)
- Bonehead Movement (great viben music and he deserves fame)
- Cashmere (got to be g, support her on the serious)
- Jonathan Blake (another sundance scene)
- Vickey Vandetta (south florida parties to bop to)
- Kill Heart Tactic (experimental and trippy rock)
- Black Kids
- California King (rougher black eyed peas type shit)
- JQ (he’s a good sequel)
- Julian Wright (he got nothin)
- W.I.M. Records (great club music, reggae and rap)
- The Sweet Hello (need not punk-sing but they are manlier than most)
- James West (french techno)
- Mr. Grind (stupid comedy)
- sotirous (indie indeed and he won’t cut the bulletins down)
- Blake Elizabeth (alanis morissette sounds better)
- La Fouine (idk why i like awkward ass french rapping)
- Ulrich Music Producer (typical rap beats probably made on garageband)
- J Minus (another acoustic montage)
- Abuz-Dirtybeatmaker (rap)
- buckchild (frenetic rap, love it)
- The Fashion (as seen on mtv once)
- Scorblaz (now, he just sounds like he’s choking francais)
- Jayne Doe (soft and cute over grudge but an exemplification of satire)
- First Round Pick (just listen to him cos i always do)
- Inglish (cool kid)
- Tennille (cool kid)
- DJ Lamont (florida rap)
- Twinkie (da beatmaker, he throws parties, too)
- Westland (love the contrast and his heart but why so pitched?)
- Travisty TriPp (so pink floydd)
- J Raw (he got nothin)
- Fast Music by Deerfield Niggas (fla covers, or sped up, never sount so goo)
- The Follow Through (such sweet acoustic punk)
- tAzIs$oArnold! (accredited, cool rap)
- David Jordan (seal)
- No Name (he got nothin)
- Joe.Branco (okay it’s just bass and funky drums)
- Artificial Glitch (tsh, that doesnt sound familar!)
- ONEoak (point-across rapper)
- Places (sounds as good as little dragon)
- CT (never ct, he wishes)
- Represent (i should remove the repetition but the fan albums amuse me)
- Alserene (metal alright and they nearly have their own template)
- DJ Karizma (smooth hip hop but they talk too much)
- FireFliers (expectant electronica)
- C.S. (what a cute little boy)
- Sierra Alpha (nice foreign disco pop)
- Deficit (ambient experimental, highly recommended)
- George Kirk (showtime-covered techno, nuff said)
- Dade County Radio (self-explanatory)
- Pluto Jenkins (poppy electronica with an attitude)
- Brandon Black (pitchy american idol auditioner)
- Hunter Langston (isn’t he on here?)
- Tomorrow (new soul meets alternative but never badu)
- H*Wood the Heart Throb (techno rapper)
- Glass America (they got nothin)
- The Day Of (sounds like the goo goo dolls)
- Dan Talevski (he sounds nice.. good.. alright..)
- DJ Mad (ecstacy techno)
- Stuart Webb (asher roth)
- Sidney (little girl tyna make it)
- Showy Vega (fab techno)
- Wisla (impressive and agressive french)
- Premium (calm french hip hop)
- The Title (electro pop so optimistic)
- Asher Roth
- Gigi Fouquet (upbeat pop-folk)
- Retro Ignite (pop-rock s)
- DJ Joker (good friend, support)
- Good Old War (chipper folk)
- I Got$ Ca$h Moneyz (hardcore-electronica)
- The Fastest Kid Alive (pop-rock, you all just vary it up, dontchya)
- The SEVENth (hip electronica)
- Brad Doggett (does great acoustic covers of r&b)
- Learn to Swim (pop-punk but at least they’re progressive)
- Clarity (now FIND VIENNA and they’re pretty damn alright for soft rock)
- Evinreud (poppish hardcore)
- Jack Splash (funky and accomplished r&b)
- Keysha Jordan (well, show us what ya got)
- Psymun (hip hop yessir)
- Killa Black (french hip-pop)
- digital underground
- AtomtA (grunge, noise, and early punk)
- Nouveaux Son (slow french hip hop)
- Scarlett Johansson & Pete Yorn
- Bleszt (electro club hip hop)
- Orchestra Green (pop punk but they sound different)
- Earthtone (with brad dogget, acoustic rap, son)
- Driven Records (pop-punk on the skirts on whinging screamo)
- PT.V (urban request station)
- B.B.G, BIGG HOMMIE UNK AKA RUGA REDD (love me some hardcore rap.. but this is a negative)
- Young Merch (psychedelic hip hop)
- Suave the Ape (original hip hop meets rap ohso niceee)
- Soljah Entertainment (rap in its quintessence)
- Fast Music by Alex (southern rap)
- Justice (chill rapper who beats just right)
- Deer Run Productionz (redo of numerous rap songs, catchy..)
- Kristen Williams (female electro pop)
- My Burgunfy Waltz (folk tunes)
- BBNR! (hardcore hyphy meets pop-rock)
- Blaspheme95sous (french)
- Ameritz (got nothin)
- Ching (typical rap)
- Anorpha (they got nothin)
- MoneyFirst (such gangstas, oo!)
- Autumn (hardcore pop-punk, actually alright)
- Doni Donzo (upbeat french rap)
- The Whisper Effect (they look like douches and this gets annoying)
- Needless to Say (just got off warped, julia’s voice is awesome)
- Lonley London Lad (trippy ambient grunge)
- Dru (brooklyn hip hop aspirer)
- Official Rated-R Music (quiet rapper)
- smirp (they got nothin)
- Wilsonman (he tried on the autotoning.. tired, i like the storytelling doe)
- EKlips (french rap so typical)
- B@by Zoe (love ze southern rap)
- Triple Zut (french hardcore rap and he speaks a bit of english, too!)
- Papy-J (french rap better than the aforesaid)
- Burn Down the Mission (r&b? great heart but pop.. boo)
- G.Black (french gets tired)
- Curusbrigan Te (francais francias)
- Lady Tru from Got Bully? (cashmere’s group)
- Got Bully? (i love cashmere)
- The Spin Room (pop-punk, stop spreading my myspace)
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Just To Let The Two Who Are Reading Know
I'm too far from the comfort of my bulky desktop as I am still in my hometown, curing my homesickness. For now I'll be posting something like twitter; following tumblr. Just listen to Little Dragon and feel well informed. Be alright.
Happy to Miriam. fifteen.
Happy to Miriam. fifteen.
tumble.
"jtrilla" (4:34:21 AM) : like it couldnt be that bad where you live, & you not that much of a deviant
"jtrilla" (4:34:31 AM) : go find a normal ass nigga
"jtrilla" (4:34:35 AM) : lmao im so mean yo
souruss (4:36:11 AM) : lmao
souruss
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