Transcript
- So my Instagram's blown up. I was at like 400K.
when I was underground, and then I've gone to 2.4 million in about two months.
When I blew up on TikTok, I'm gonna start following me, so I blew it up on Instagram. And my Instagram is almost basically unusable now. I get five or six thousand DMs an hour. I can't possibly read them. What's worst about it is that people have no fucking concept of how busy I am. If I go on my Instagram inbox...
I am so ridiculously busy and they'll message me things like, "Hey, how are you?"
Oh, I'm fine, bro. How are you? I don't have time for that. What do you want?
Like at least, your best Shaw, at least tell me what you fucking want, quick.
"Hey bro, how are you? I just want to chat. Do you have time for a quick phone call?" No.
I do not have time to fucking call you.
Because money has no value to me, and time is exceptionally valuable to me, and the chance of you having a good idea is zero anyway. And even if your idea is good, all it's going to do is give me money, which I don't want, and take my time, which I do want.
So the chance of me calling you, "Hey man," is 0%.
Fat zero. But hey, bro, or how are you? Even people I've known a long time, right? Now that I'm super famous, people who I've known a long time, who I actually like, people, I don't dislike these people, people I like, are messaging me.
And I'm saying this with respect, get to the fucking point.
"Tate, I need this," or "Tate, can we do this?" Don't be like, "Tate, how you been?" I know it's polite, I get that. I don't care about polite. I do not have time. I am low on time. I spend an hour and a half a day on Instagram. I gotta get through 5,000 messages.
I won't spend more time on Instagram because it's bad for my mind.
My brain is better used elsewhere. So I'm scanning through
I'm trying to pick out the pussy, the hot chicks, just
Yeah, HALT, E, accept, HALT, E, accept, HALT, E, accept, accepting all the HALT girls,
and then all the dudes with what they want and shit get to the point. So my Instagram is basically fucked now because the inbox is fucked.
Everyone's just messaging me fucking pure shit is fucked.
But I made a tape speech a while ago about how I had the best Instagram in the world and I promised I'd read you all more poems I'm kissing this bitch and remember your lips. I'm missing your touch watching this Got battle scars girl. I guess I finally got hit, but I'm a champion and I'm made for this shit So I thought Now's a good time to read some poems to you. I
Because I'm an emotional, soft, sensitive man.
This is a picture of me in Paris at the Eiffel Tower.
Now Paris is the city of love.
as we all know.
There's no way I would ever call Paris a rotting cesspit.
covered in rats and crime and homeless.
I don't know why anyone would say that about the city of love.
Because it would be a shame, it would be an awful shame if a nation were to have a city, a capital city, which is renowned internationally for being.
associated with something as beautiful as love.
And because they are so inept, they allow it to crumble before their very eyes.
I mean, what?
What type of people would even do that?
Surely not. And especially not the ultra-competent French. Never in a million years would they let their city fall apart.
I love Paris.
So, I was in Paris for one day only, luckily.
I managed to escape quite quickly.
And I took a picture and I decided to write a poem. And when I write these poems, I always worry. And my worry is that because everyone on earth is so many miles below me, perhaps they don't get the timing right. Perhaps they read it, but in their tiny little brains, it doesn't sound the way it's supposed to sound because they're not as smart as I am. So perhaps the best thing I can do is just read it out loud to them like children so they can hear how it was always intended.
to exist.
Here we are.
Every time I leave there's tears in her eyes. She knows how I'm earning and she wants me alive.
The struggle is finished, but I still only strive.
Understand is how life taught me to survive. Every time I'm moving, there's a strap, no doubt. I don't respect the law, so why travel without?
It's rained and it's poured, I even built up a spout. The withouts want my buckets when they're living in drought. Every time that we fuck, I crush my soul into yours. We mix pain and insane with Eiffel Tower tours. I collect cash quiet behind double locked doors, without profit to make.
there wouldn't be wars money has no value so i give you time with the dawn you're in love with my brains obsessed with my brawn enemies won't stop now the guns have been drawn i just hope you still love me after i'm gone top g now i don't think numbers go high enough to explain the level of women who blew up my inbox when i posted that picture
Because they look at me and go, he's a savage. This guy, he's big and strong and rich. He's a gangster and he's living in Romania and he's got all this money and all these women. Surely he's heartless. And then they read the poem and they go, maybe there's a glimmer of hope.
Maybe I'll be the one he writes poems about.
and
thousand
beautiful women in box me.
And then there's always some dork who comments under it. - You write poems, you're gay.
Like, all right, bro, I'm gay because all the chicks are messaging me. That makes me gay.
Cool.
So, and I'm not, I don't just do it for the chicks, I do it because
I can.
And when you're at my level of competence, at my level of ability, you just do things because you can do them.
but
Just for all the players out there who are wondering,
The number one comment on that poem is Aidan Ross saying, please check your DMs.
Little fat kid who I kind of somehow now like who's a Twitch streamer.
He's all right. He's fine. Let's find another poem.
I stopped writing poems for a while. There was no poems. I was given motivational quotes, but let's find another poem I've written.
Where's the last time?
Thank you.
Me buying another Bugatti, my second one, the Bugatti with my new name, Double Gold Caramel Billionaire. Those ice creams are serious, by the way. I recommend you try them. Me with my Lambo, me on the private jet. Okay, here we go. Me in church. I'm a good man.
Blah, blah, blah. Ferrari, Aston Martin, DBS, private jet again, Porsche 911. 911.
Private jet again, me and McDonald's with the Bugatti of course.
We're gonna get there, don't worry. There must be a poem somewhere.
I stopped writing for a while. Me in the police cell,
Sheeran again. So this poem is about how a man cheats on a woman, treats her like shit, and then she becomes a dickhead.
And the man wants to hold her back. But now she's broken inside and she ain't loving anymore. So all my exes started messaging me. Did you write that about me? That's exactly what happened. Shut up, bitch. What about all of you?
I'm not.
I stole perfect beauty from her eyes. I watched pain drain it as she cried. I bear the stain of endless lies. I guess I've learned that love can die. I stole the things that made her kind. She won't act right, made up her mind.
But she can see that I'm not fine. I guess they lied. Love isn't blind.
Now she won't give me what I need.
won't respect the values of my creed.
It was my greed that made hearts bleed.
But now I dream of being free. No more obligation for the chore. I'm living one leg out the door. Yes, it's my fault that her heart is sore. But I just don't want her. Anymore. And that poem is about, you're the big G. Got your bitch. You're doing your thing. You're out with your boys. Pimping. Accidentally fuck this hoe. Happens. Every man out here knows. Sometimes you accidentally fuck a bitch. You slip. Hoops pussy.
bitch, you're out, you're busy, you're away, you're doing things. She starts complaining, yeah, you broke my heart. And then when you're finally home, she ain't cool anymore. Instead of loving and nice, she's just like naggy.
moaning
And now she ain't the same as she was.
And that's what the poem is about. The last lines of the poem are important.
It says, "I have no more obligation for the chore." She's become a chore, and I'm living with one leg out the door. It's my fault that her heart is sore, but I just don't want her anymore. So yeah, it's my fault that you became a dickhead, but now you're a dickhead, and I don't really want to be with a dickhead. So then when you leave them, they're like, "Why did you leave me?"
Because I live one life, my dear.
and I lived my life to the best of my ability.
and some things upset you and instead of staying in line you just thought that the best thing to do would be to become a nagging horrible person
And I know you feel like I am obligated to deal with it because I turned you into this person, but I disagree.
you could have analyzed the chessboard
came to me kindly and nicely and begged for me to stop.
and stayed lovely,
and nice
so that I wanted to be with you. Because once I don't want to be around you anymore, you don't really have much leverage. Do you, my love?
And that's what the poem's about. I've sent that poem to about three
3 chicks.
.
and none of them
even truly understood the context well enough to realize they should shut the fuck up.
They continued to run their mouths.
and then they got dumped.
Yeah.