Despite

My step dad is a really generous dude. I'm eternally grateful for everything he's provided. After showing him my first mixtape, he was moved to the point where he wanted to help me succeed. He knew Huntsville wasn't going to cultivate my creativity so he offered to pay for an apartment out in Austin. In return, I was expected to make music. And starting the day I moved into my new apartment, that's exactly what I did. In my bedroom there was nothing but a sleeping bag, a lap-top, and some recording gear. I'd finally escaped my mother's clutches and moved to the Mecca of Music. I wasn't going to fuck this up.

For the first few months though, I couldn't take pressure. Do I deserve this apartment? Am I a spoiled little bitch? Am I good enough to stoke people? All these questions were eating me alive. That's why the first song I wrote after moving to Austin was "Good Enough". Good Enough had to come first. In that song I was almost reminding myself, Ferrell, you don't care. You make music for fun and if it all comes crashing down around you and everyone hates your shit, you'll at least know you tried.

And so it was. For one year I lived in my beautiful apartment. I kept it clean. I wrote and recorded my entire mixtape. I worked at a pizza place. I hung out with my girlfriend. I traveled to the city. I wandered the near by nature preserves... Life was pretty fucking good.

When my step dad (Mike) wrecked his four wheeler though, everything came to a screeching halt. He was in a coma for almost two months. The good news is that he's out of it now. My mom says he's talking, although I haven't been able to see that with my own eyes yet. I'm planning to visit him this Friday.

Now it's September 19th and I'm losing my apartment October 1st. I have to put all my stuff in storage then temporarily crash at a friends house until I've saved up enough money to get my own place. In that time period I'll be working every single day. I won't be able to make music or anything until I get back on my feet again.

You would think this might discourage me but it actually just motivates me further. It'll give me stuff to write about and things to film. Not to mention how satisfying it'll be once I'm actually 100% independent. Then nobody can tell me shit and my temple will produce more music and videos than ever before. I'm motivated, ready to work, and excited to earn my independence.

Working two jobs in order to provide myself with a one bedroom apartment sounds exactly like what I eventually expected for myself. I knew that it would come to this someday. I've always known. By skipping out on college to pursue Earthworm, I took the rough side up the mountain. Everything will work out.

"Despite the overwhelming since of doom that looms in my subconscious, I'm confident that I'll accomplish".

$$$$

If it weren't for the people who purchased Rhythm and Poetry and the prize money I won from battling, I have NO idea what the fuck I'd be doing for money. Hip-Hop is the only reason I'm surviving.

Fuck.

It's hard for me to let the general population into my brain, but anything is better than keeping it to myself. I'm sitting in my room and just finished an anything but nutritious "meal". Lately I've been eating one meal a day and it's usually a pretty shitty one. It's all I can really afford. I haven't been sleeping well. I'm stressed out.

My step dad has been such an influential figure in my life. He's half the reason Earthworm exists. If it weren't for him believing in me, helping me, and encouraging me to go against the grain ... I would have never accomplished the things I did this year. Shit, this year wouldn't even have happened. 

Mike, (my step dad) was in a four wheeler accident last month. He really did a number on himself. I know that he wouldn't want me to stumble on his account, but it's just impossible. I can't shake it. I think about it every day. Every little thing reminds me of him.

The human who made my dream possible is in a coma.

Daycare

When I was a 5 years old, I attended this daycare academy called La Petite. Once while playing on the playground, I sneezed. Snot flew everywhere and it was just hanging from my face. The bathroom was pretty far away. I had to run from the playground and through the playroom to wipe my nose. Apparently lots of people had seen the snot hanging off my face. That's when this group of girls started calling me Booger Boy. The name spread like fire. It got to the point where nobody even wanted to be within five feet of me because they thought my sinus problem was contagious. It was so bad that even the teacher, Mrs. Melissa was calling me Booger Boy. For half a year I just took the abuse. I never told my parents. I played alone everyday. Eventually my mom started noticing that I didn't want to leave her arms in the mornings and asked me if everything was okay. I told her the story and she tore that place apart.

Melissa got fired and they offered my mom a few months free, but she put me in a new daycare instead. When I arrived to the new daycare, I was determined to be accepted. I was extremely conscious of peoples perceptions of me. I would spend 15 minutes in front of the mirror at age five just making sure I looked okay and that there were no boogers in my nose.

I feel like that experience shaped me. I never wanted to be Booger Boy again. I wanted to be the coolest kid ever from that day forward. In kindergarten I went above and beyond to always say something funny and ended up receiving the "Class Clown" award at the end of the year. By fourth grade I was telling the most ridiculous stories at lunch. I just remember talking about this video game and how I'd learned a secret cheat where you could fly out to this island. All the other kids would listen so intently. It made me feel important even though I knew I was lying. I didn't care.

That part of me still hasn't died. There's a little Ferrell in my soul that's terrified of public rejection. Who double checks for boogers before he leaves the house. Who will embellish just to get a rise out of the crowd. It's something I've recently become conscious of. I'm now realizing it's okay to just be myself. The older I get, the more I see it. I might not be the most attractive person, I might not be the most intelligent, but god dammit - I'm a human being. I've got a story that's worth listening to and I don't have to embellish. Someone out there is going to love me for me. Hopefully my fans will too. I'm just a regular dude with problems and experiences like everyone else. Love me or hate me, I'm done dancing through a house of smoke.

listen - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwXh8h5jivg

Eventually

No matter what, everything dies. Is it the same for love? If castles made of sand eventually melt into the sea, why build them in the first place? I mean, what's the point? Why put so much effort into something that's just going to die? If you believe the void is more comfortable than the graveyard, don't build sand castles. If the graveyard seems more inviting, build whatever you can think of. Just remember that eventually you'll have to watch it melt into the sea.