That is, if he’s not in Jamaica or Siberia smoking weed from Nigeria.
The condo is an aspirational ideal, a metaphor for highness, a place to store his imaginary Grammys, and to fuck nannies. He spells out “l-e-a-n-i-n-g” on “ 2 Cups Stuffed” like Styrofoam and codeine were presents under the Christmas tree. You might question the lifestyle decisions, but few make self-destruction sound so gleeful. His craggy voice sounds ancient and energetic at the same time. The eccentricity makes him compelling, but it doesn’t make him great. But when he looks in the mirror, 22-year old Jeffrey Williams only sees a meal ticket and occasionally Princess Leia buns. But Thugga hails from one planet further out, an inhospitable and volcanic sphere of choppy rock where the strip clubs only accept hundreds. There’s the croaking syllable plasticity of Lil Wayne circa the lunar peaks of his Martian phase. It is possible to explain him in terms of conventional lineage. His bloodstream is equal parts Strawberry Jolly Ranchers, promethazine, tropical Fanta, marijuana, molly, and alien drugs beamed in from the plug on Betelgeuse. His vocabulary is a creole of Atlanta trap slang, Hopelandic, and the language of thought-the yeows, yelps, and coos used by babies to communicate. Neither toxicologist nor translator can interpret Young Thug.
