"I don't need a tutor, Misawa."
"Well, Chazz, Doctor Crowler appears to feel differently. Perhaps we can just get through this week together and you can prove how much you don't require my services by receiving a stellar score."
"Fine, whatever."
Did a motherfucker just throw shade at me? I ain't even playing like that.
"Alright, let's proceed to the library," I show Chazz the door out the crib, about to turn this shit sideways. We gon get our fucking MATH on.
We hit up the hella dope learnin' lab like we gon stunt all over the nice floors.
"May I see your last exam, please?"
He rips that shit out his bag, knowing I'm all about the hustlin' life.
I look down at it. Ah hell no. Ain't nobody fucking up the quadratic formula this bad on my watch. The Bast is gonna lay it down, now.
"Ah, indeed. I see the problem," I lay out the paper like a fine ass that needs thrashin'. "Your base concept is a bit off. You see…"
I explain that, fam, you done fucked this up something awful. Take a knee, Imma tell you something. This shit? This shit is wack. I can't fuck with this. This boy is straight trippin' if he thinks the M-Man —AKA Mathematics — ain't tight enough to werk. Who even blue balls Algebra this bad? It's like tryna heat up some zesty ass Ramen with the friction of a hammer. RIP Adrian, btw. Improperly using carpentry tools be wicked dangerous, yo.
"And there you have it, Chazz. You just need to actually memorize a few numbers and… I'd say probably use a calculator." Truth bombs be mad heartbreaking sometimes, bro. I ain't gon front. "Your skills in basic arithmetic are frankly abysmal."
"Go fuck yourself," he spits out like he don't wanna be invited over for beer pong. I watch the homie peace out with my face like, What the hell, ya'll?
"No need to be so crass."