The anxiety is real! I’ve been so fucking stressed out! Life has been jumping up and down on my balls for the last six months like my supple testicle skin was stretched out across a trampoline frame.
For those of you that don’t know, Minneapolis artist P.O.S. dealt with some life or death health issues. Requiring a liver transplant is no fucking joke. And to hear him come back from mad-dogging Mr. Muerte, to make music so confident and yet chill, makes me look at life happily trampolining on my testes like so fucking what.
Most of my struggles are of my own design. I eat like shit (though I’ve been trying to do better). My exercise regiment is the opposite of a regiment and more like irrelevant (though I’ve been trying to do better). My struggles with alcohol and drugs and smoking are well-documented within these pages (and I’ve been doing way way better). My love life is a constant existential crisis (though I’m learning more about myself and from where my seething well of discontent draws its nourishment, and addressing that shit more directly than I’ve ever been courageous or insightful enough to do).
P.O.S. puts out new music like "Wave" that sounds so refreshing it’s like water. Not just drinking it, but pouring a whole icy pitcher of it down my dad shorts. This naturally caused my ballskin to shrink and life to stop its game of try and touch the sky.
Thank you, P.O.S. Thank you.
Your strength and unquenchable depth of creativity is a goddamn inspiration. I love you. You are the sun shining, reminding me this cave is temporary. Thank you for making music and pushing yourself to new depths of dope! Thank you for causing my taut testes to shrinky dink. You are a god, disguised as a man. Or the other way around. I’m not sure. But either way, consider it worship at your altar. Thank you!