Nope, you can't do it like me [So] so don't do it like me
How long have I been awake? Has it been days or weeks? I haven’t eaten or bathed in…well, I can’t remember.
I’ve been here. In front of this mirror. Punching, leaning back and forth, left to right three times. Over and over. The movements now completely ingrained, permanently etched into my mind the way rivers carve through the landscape, carving flat plains into cavernous valleys.
I pull my arms forward, then move left and right. Left and right. Left and right, but…it’s missing something. I turn to my computer, with that same video playing on loop, always on, always playing on loop.
Him. At times I wish I had never laid eyes on him, with those ridiculous glasses, that outlandish fashion sense.
How easily I had fallen under his spell, pulled in by the pied piper call of his steel drums, his fervent insistence, his calling — always calling out to me—— “Yooou!!!”. It’s a voice that haunts my every moment, drifting in from the shadows, turning my life into a nightmare of a waking dream.
When I started I knew his claims were correct — I had a lot to learn about Cranking dat Soulja Boy. But in time, with practice, the movements became familiar, even natural seeming. But something wasn’t right. It lacked something. It simply wasn’t the same as when He did it.
I’ve spent days, weeks, analyzing, repeating, practicing. But I have no idea where the missing piece is. I feel the shame, the hatred rise up like a ball of hot iron rising up my esophagus. I fall to the floor, crying, screaming like a child, out of control.
WHY? I hate him. I wish I had never cranked that Soulja Boy. He will always…ALWAYS do it better than I will.
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