We cannot presume that Rick Ross is a mastermind, a genius or even sober. We cannot attest to his level of education, his employment history, or his net-worth. We have no idea where he came from: he claims to be Mohammed, the son of Moses, and the reincarnation of Haile Selassie. But, as he tells us on his latest album: none of that matters.
t’s 4 am and your mind is in Kansas City in 2004 when you made this Geocities webpage in the living room of that house on 91st Street, and you are not crying. Your page is called modernart.html, because not much has changed in the last decade, but you used to put two spaces in between sentences, so things are looking up.
In the middle of the night, Drake released a yearning slow-jam called “Girls Love Beyoncé.” It plods forward, and Drake sings unsteadily over a codeine-soaked sample of the Destiny’s Child classic “Say My Name.” He laments what fame has done to his love life and ability to connect with women, so the subject matter doesn’t veer far away from Drake’s usual meditations on his fame-induced trust issues.
The Crying Game DJ Yung Educated But Unemployed Lil Drummer Boy Sofresh n’ Soclean Dion Adonis Morissette D(ean)J Rapelye Rudeboy Giuliani Duncan Hoy-Z Lil Peni$ Lil Italy Lil Lion Man Lil Caesars Pizza Kings ?uest Missy Eliot Linton Missy Michelle … Read More
A few years ago, the artsy and presumably transity Peter B. Lewis threw enough money at the University to roughly eclipse Rick Ross’ monthly champagne budget.
