white cups and sansizzurp

Andrew San.
Twenty's.
Ride for my Team.
B.M.E.

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Dreams.

I’m supposed to be a pharmacist. Fuck that.

Why am I doing something I don’t want to do.
Maybe it’s because we want to live the lives we grew up watching.
We watched our parents as their professions: nurses, engineers.
Me, I want to be an Artist.

Not any picasso shit.
I want to be a Poet. A Lyricist.
Fuck. I don’t even need to get paid.

My ultimate dream would to have people, COMPLETE STRANGERS, quote MY lyrics on their facebook status.
I want people to search BALUT MUSIC’s name on google.
I want people to go to BALUT MUSIC’s youtube and say, if they can do it, then I can do it.
I want to have my friends by my side, traveling city to city, shutting shit down.
I want people reaching out to BALUT MUSIC’s e-mail and ask if we can perform at their Venue.
I want to perform at SXSW and I want one of my Idols to say, “Damn, he’s good.”

I want to be known.

I was driving the other day listening to my favorite writer, Christopher Wallace.
I know every fucking word to 80% of the songs on Ready to Die.
This man has been dead for 14 years. (I cried when he died. Rest in Peace)
Yet, he is still living through me.
A kid at my work was reciting the chorus to “big poppa” while I was ringing him and his mom up.
He was 13 years old.
I want that So. Fucking. Bad.
It can even be 1 person.
The thought of people reciting MY words when I’m gone sends shivers down my back.

Pharmacists don’t get remembered.
People don’t say, “Damn, he filled that prescription super fast”.

I just want to live my dreams. I want to live the way I’ve always envisioned living.

My girlfriend, myself, and my dog Bino. Along with our friends.
A loft in an Urban City.
High ceilings, Visible Air-Conditiong system, Very Minimalistic.
2 Extra Rooms so that our family/friends can stay.
A Studio. No fancy shit. Just enough to make an EP that sounds professional.
Wall of Jordans.

I’m going to make it happen.
And I’m Taking my team with me.

B.A.L.U.T. Music.