What is a swag slump, you ask? It's when you've inadvertently turned down and you don't know for what. You're momentarily finesse-less. Your flavor is off. Your shit ain't rooty tooty fresh 'n fruity. It's more pralines and dick cheese. You walk out in public and instead of your chin held high with a twinkle in your eye, you got that Quasimodo slump and you're sobbing down the street while hearing, "Get out my way, you basic bitch lol." When you've gone 0-for-everything in recent days—maybe even weeks like I have—you need to talk to somebody about it. Consider me patient X.
First, I'd like to kick things off with a confession: The swag I possessed before was much less than I exuded. I talk a big game, but when it comes down to brass tacks, it's mostly a front. It makes more sense once I break it down. How can one have swag in Iowa? It's tough, man, real tough. I'm also almost 30 and I'm still saying "swag," which is in and of itself swagless. Finally, my jawnz coppage has been at an all-time low since this money-hungry motherfucker aka my son came into the world. His swag is through the roof though, so I guess shit is more or less par for the course. Honestly, it's like he's been taking that drug from Limitless, while I'm out here bumping cheap cocaine that's cut with the same baby powder I'm putting on lil homie's ass.
How do I know I'm in a swag slump? I hop up out da bed and the only thing I turn on is my iPhone, where I start every day by finding out I have no likes, retweets or emails from swaggy brands telling me they want to send me free shit because they know my body is ready. My body is decidedly not ready evidently. I look in my closet full of clothing and all I see is my father telling me how disappointed he was in me when I came home crossfaded and put the milk in the cupboard and the cereal in the fridge. On top of everything else, I'm, like, three whole days behind on my interneting, which might as well be a decade in digital swag time. Like, my fucking wife had to tell me about KimYe's Vogue cover and she doesn't even know what a fucking leather jogging pant is. And I can't say shit like, "Duh, yeah, I knew that UGH" because she can smell the last time I beat off without thinking about her let alone when I lie dead ass to her face SMFH.
Even if everything else fails, I'm not moving to New York ever because that place sucks.
I knew I hit rock bottom when I had Jake Woolf telling me I was basic. I mean, this guy has Kanye's taint sweat in a bottle under his pillow—the same guy who brags to IRL people about being in a collegiate production of Cats or Rent or whatever (true story,) which was probably roughly around the same time he touched his first female nipple. And guess what? I can't do shit about it. Things are dangerously approaching a DEFCON level of swaglessness. I NEED get my swag back up. I NEED to get out of the red, bruh. God forbid I do something stupid like cop some jorts. I can't go out like that.
How does one even begin to get out of a swag slump this egregious? By getting this shit off my chest and admitting to my swagless ways, I have conquered the first step in a long road to recovery. Next, I'm probably gonna bang my wife. Like, bang the Holy Ghost out of her. It's common knowledge that you can pretty much bang your way out of any slump. I have to imagine swag slumps are no exception to the age old two pump and quiver remedy. Next, I'm gonna tell my social media followers I bought some dope jawnz from Public School or Bazar 14 or some obscure Japanese brand you plebs aren't up on, so I can gain back that trust. Potential swaggerjacking based solely off perception on deck? Sure. But I'm desperate. Leggo.
Even if everything fails, I'm not moving to New York ever because that place sucks. I'd rather my swag slump and I be together forever before moving to that dump. In that case, bring on the vintage AND1 tees and Tevas with the socks to match. I'mma let Jesus take the wheel. The end. Fuck you, Jake.
