In July, when I came back home, something in me died. Carrying her body in broad daylight and stuffing it in a car, not knowing if she’d live or die, really makes you think about what death truly is. It also makes you think: the next time you and him will carry her like that, it will be in her coffin. Then the worrying started–the consoling–with nobody there to console me. A shoulder to cry on, but no shoulders for me (as usual). It made me turn to all my favorite depressing shows for help: Eva, Orel, Sopranos, and it's all true: you die in your own arms. Everything you’re worried about, everyone you care about, it all gets washed away like you all were never here. What does leaving your mark even mean if that’s the case? Kids? Pft. Are you wasting away? What are you doing with your life? You’re gonna die soon, too. You’re gonna watch everyone die first, though. Are you living your life? Are you jealous that you’re not? All the malcontent you feel, is it warranted? I wanted this caption to be a big fuck you to everyone who says they were there for me. Meanwhile, they were talking behind my back (as usual) or trying to guilt me lowkey. I wanted this caption to be a huge fuck you to the people who have everything they could want but still can’t be happy. I wanted this caption to be a huge fuck you to everyone who has ever shit on my beats, meanwhile not having a creative bone in their body big enough to show me better. But I realized it was all just me and that I hate myself. And I always will hate myself on some level. Comfort hurts, anyway. But I’ll hate myself more if I waste away, and don’t live my life, and don’t put me first. So this entire album is me dispelling every inner demon I’ve had from July to right this second. Listen or don’t; buy or not; this shit ain't really about you. Would actually be happy if most of you kept scrolling. Also, don’t reach out with the fake ass “you good” either; I figured all this out without you, and I’m finally content with that. This project was my therapy, not the trite convos—or the false relatability. Or the pats on the back. You have your own shit, I’ve got mine. No, you don’t need context, and further inquiries will be ignored. But I’ll be there for y'all when you reach out in your times of need, as usual, don’t you worry…with a smile on my face…😈