years ahead of their time. And at the end of the day, after dancing continually and fucking and sucking niggas left and right, they didnât have a dime to their name and were left with stretched out and dry pussies and a stained reputation in the game.
Not me.
I had a plan for myself. I wanted to save money, and get myself back into music, maybe open up my own studio, possibly get signed by a label, start writing for a mixture of artists, or just produce something. I still had it in me, my drive and my talents. My brain couldnât stop; it was running twenty-four/seven with creativity and the next hustle.
I took a pull from the blunt and watched this new female rap group video premiere on BET. They called themselves Vixen Mistress, and I was in awe of the name. It sounded too much like our group, Vixenâs Chaos. But then when I heard some of their lyrics, I was completely taken aback, because those were my words, my flow.
âYou keep falling victim to things that really donât matter, addicted to the person who keeps shattering ya laughter, hooked on a love thatâs tainted like acid. Itâs blasphemy how you stay chasinâ after an unwilling happening.â
I stood up, aghast, blunt damn near falling from my lips, and screamed out, âOh my fuckinâ God, are they serious!â
Those were my lyrics, my words. It was the song I performed that night with Mouse at the Latin Quarters in the city. These two fake bitches werenât even on our level. One was skinny like a number two pencil with a long weave and bad makeup, and the second was thicker with short blond hair and trying to look like Eve. They werenât even original. I knew Search or someone in the studio had to be behind the theft. Just watching these fake bitches get their shine on with their own music video made me want to cry. I was crushed. It felt like I was about to have a panic attack. I wanted to contact Mouse so badly and tell her what I saw, but I didnât have a number to reach her by and we still werenât on good terms with each other.
When the four-minute video went off, I sat there dumbfounded. It should have been us on there, not them. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something. I wanted to contact Search and shout out, âYo, what the fuck! Really? Fuck you! Why you playinâ us like that?â I knew he was still upset with the way things played out between us. He really liked me, but the feeling wasnât mutual. Search was only a friend in my eyes, and I never wanted to fuck him. But I felt he took us for granted. I had him beat down, which was a decision that I regretted to this day. Did he do this just to get back at us, be spiteful? He was out there, grinding in the hip hop scene, on the serious come up, making a name for himself while leaving us behind.
I couldnât do anything but cry. It was the ultimate disrespect. I was here struggling, dancing naked, spreading my business to strangers and having to turn a trick to keep from drowning in poverty.
âHe ainât gonna get away with this shit,â I said to myself.
I thought about hiring an attorney; sue his ass and that whack-ass group he was managing for copyright infringement. But then I had to think, with what cash? Even I knew better that lawsuits cost, and none of my songs were copyrighted. I wrote them, performed them, and wasnât thinking on the business level. I was the victim of music plagiarism. I fucked up.
So the tears fell as I dwelled on my mistakes.
For an hour, I sat there stunned and so hurt; it felt like I was becoming sick to my stomach. I kept saying to myself, Search or whoever couldnât get away with this. I was so hungry to do something about it, that I even thought about getting a few homeboys who liked me to find him and fuck his ass up.
I was in a deep zone until I heard someone knocking at my door. I slowly got up, covered myself with a long T-shirt, and went to see who it was
Not me.
I had a plan for myself. I wanted to save money, and get myself back into music, maybe open up my own studio, possibly get signed by a label, start writing for a mixture of artists, or just produce something. I still had it in me, my drive and my talents. My brain couldnât stop; it was running twenty-four/seven with creativity and the next hustle.
I took a pull from the blunt and watched this new female rap group video premiere on BET. They called themselves Vixen Mistress, and I was in awe of the name. It sounded too much like our group, Vixenâs Chaos. But then when I heard some of their lyrics, I was completely taken aback, because those were my words, my flow.
âYou keep falling victim to things that really donât matter, addicted to the person who keeps shattering ya laughter, hooked on a love thatâs tainted like acid. Itâs blasphemy how you stay chasinâ after an unwilling happening.â
I stood up, aghast, blunt damn near falling from my lips, and screamed out, âOh my fuckinâ God, are they serious!â
Those were my lyrics, my words. It was the song I performed that night with Mouse at the Latin Quarters in the city. These two fake bitches werenât even on our level. One was skinny like a number two pencil with a long weave and bad makeup, and the second was thicker with short blond hair and trying to look like Eve. They werenât even original. I knew Search or someone in the studio had to be behind the theft. Just watching these fake bitches get their shine on with their own music video made me want to cry. I was crushed. It felt like I was about to have a panic attack. I wanted to contact Mouse so badly and tell her what I saw, but I didnât have a number to reach her by and we still werenât on good terms with each other.
When the four-minute video went off, I sat there dumbfounded. It should have been us on there, not them. I wanted to scream. I wanted to break something. I wanted to contact Search and shout out, âYo, what the fuck! Really? Fuck you! Why you playinâ us like that?â I knew he was still upset with the way things played out between us. He really liked me, but the feeling wasnât mutual. Search was only a friend in my eyes, and I never wanted to fuck him. But I felt he took us for granted. I had him beat down, which was a decision that I regretted to this day. Did he do this just to get back at us, be spiteful? He was out there, grinding in the hip hop scene, on the serious come up, making a name for himself while leaving us behind.
I couldnât do anything but cry. It was the ultimate disrespect. I was here struggling, dancing naked, spreading my business to strangers and having to turn a trick to keep from drowning in poverty.
âHe ainât gonna get away with this shit,â I said to myself.
I thought about hiring an attorney; sue his ass and that whack-ass group he was managing for copyright infringement. But then I had to think, with what cash? Even I knew better that lawsuits cost, and none of my songs were copyrighted. I wrote them, performed them, and wasnât thinking on the business level. I was the victim of music plagiarism. I fucked up.
So the tears fell as I dwelled on my mistakes.
For an hour, I sat there stunned and so hurt; it felt like I was becoming sick to my stomach. I kept saying to myself, Search or whoever couldnât get away with this. I was so hungry to do something about it, that I even thought about getting a few homeboys who liked me to find him and fuck his ass up.
I was in a deep zone until I heard someone knocking at my door. I slowly got up, covered myself with a long T-shirt, and went to see who it was
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