This post is not politically correct.
This post is not rainbows or sunshine or that jolt of encouragement you’ve been waiting for to finally get off your ass.
This post is the byproduct of an over saturated blogosphere, an Internet crammed with bullshit, an epidemic of laziness, a warped version of the American Dream that has substituted the value of hard work with the currency of Instagram likes. This greedy and nasty and entitled way that we’re living is not what our parents moved to America for. It’s not why they got their asses up out of the projects and moved to the burbs to make a better life for their kids. They didn’t do all of that just so that we can do it for the likes. No, they did that shit for our LIVES. And this lazy way we think we’re going to make it through, trying to bargain social media hits for effort and work, is an insult to them.
No, this post is not politically correct.
This post is 11:34 p.m. when I should be crawling into bed, but instead can’t stop thinking about how much I want to start begging people to respect my time and honor my craft.
This post is that post that makes people think that Tyece has a stick up her ass, or thinks her shit doesn’t stink or swears she’s better than everyone else. This post is that post laced with enough audacity and I-dont-give-a-fuck to negate all of those assumptions and perceptions. Because this post is about hard work and demanding respect for hard work, and never accepting anything less than when people choose to honor hard work.
This post is 1 a.m. Google docs and 7 a.m. checks on shipping statuses. This post is 7 p.m. coming home from work to eat, watch a show and settle in for a second round of work. This post is 11 p.m. on Friday nights working on Sunday Kind of Love for that weekend. This post was four nights of writing a week in 2014. This post is a steady output of work, a consistent and excellent product, an overly protective approach to the vision and a relentless pursuit of the dream. This post is feeling lonely and confused and sometimes hurt when it feels like people don’t understand the sacrifices I make and the tolls they take.
And, this post is the tribe of people around me whose talent and work ethic are absolutely undeniable, unquestionable and awe-inspiring.
This post is the creation of the blueprint. This post is every bit of what Nicki said on Truffle Butter when she spits that line: “Your whole style and approach I invented, and I ain’t takin that back cause I meant it.” This post is that. This post is an ode to authenticity, a cry for realness, a plea for people to find their own voices and become themselves.
This post is the last post I want to write asking people to respect my time and honor my craft. Because there won’t be any more asks. I will just be telling. I won’t take any prisoners. I will be asking you to show me each and every last one of the receipts. Because niceties aren’t paying my bills. And niceties aren’t making me any more or less authentic. Niceties aren’t a word I put on the “Brand DNA” page of my Twenties Unscripted overview last year, that one you didn’t know I had on deck for anytime I need to educate someone on the ins and outs of my work. Niceties are assassinating my time and depleting my energy, time and energy that I can’t afford to waste when I am so crazily and ferociously building this precious thing of mine.
This post is not politically correct.
Politically correct is not, nor was it ever, part of my brand. But demanding that people respect my time and honor the painstaking effort I put into honing my craft–yes, that is part of my brand, it’s part of me and it will absolutely not be undermined, fucked with, misunderstood, questioned or doubted. Not now and not ever.
I told you this post was not politically correct.