 Dear H.E.R.,
We really need to talk.
Or rather, I need to write and you read.
We both know that we're not connecting anymore. We haven't in quite a long time. I know we've gone down this road several times in the past, but I can't keep pretending like we've amended anything. That would be a boldface lie.
I've lost just about all the respect I used to have for you, and any efforts I make to get it back are met with even more dissonance. Our relationship has reached its nadir, and I'm not sure there's any salvaging it at this point.
It's hard to think about how much different you've become since you put that Naughty By Nature tape in my hand 18 years ago and changed my life forever. I was just a little scamp still shy of puberty back then, but you grabbed me by my shoulder blades and gently pushed me down the path to the beat.
I smile when I think about how we used our fists to pound out beats on the lunch table when I was a high school freshman - I was happy just to be accepted in the circle of the freestyle-kicking seniors. And you remember when you convinced the dude at the record store to sell me the MC Eiht tape even though it had the parental advisory sticker? You never told my mama...we had that trust.
You kept me company every morning on that terrible hour-long bus trip to the Eastside YMCA that one summer, insisting that I listen closely to Eric B. & Rakim even when the disc was skipping in my uncle's busted old portable CD player with the cigarette burns. It was one of those things I wasn't crazy about at the time but had to grow older to appreciate.
And what happened to all the long conversations we used to have? You, the fellas and I used to build about Biggie versus Pac before it became vogue and eventually played out. Even when I wasn't in the mood to hear it, you explained to me how, in many ways, N.W.A. and Public Enemy's disparate messages were really politically similar.
I wish things could be like they were around 1996 when Nas, Biggie, OutKast, Jigga, Wu-Tang, The Pharcyde and Mobb Deep made me realize I wanted to spend the rest of my natural life with you. You were having your renaissance then; I introduced you to my family and friends, and I never kept you far from earshot.
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 But then you got way too big for your baggy britches. Just over a decade ago, they lured you with money into a vapid, formulaic lifestyle, and you bit. You went from gritty rooftop videos in the boroughs to shiny suits and fishbowl cams. Puffy and the Louisianians whispered sweet nothings into your ear, greased your palms, and suddenly what I had to say wasn't as important. It was like I couldn't afford you anymore.
And it's gotten progressively worse. The profligacy that the major record labels provided you made you stop picking up the phone when I call; it clouded your judgment and made you put those of us who truly love you on the backburner.
Who are these new cats you're hanging out with? Young Jeezy? OJ Da Juiceman? Gucci Mane? Honestly...aren't you a little old to be spending time with kids? You know I can't stand them, yet you bring them to our home at all hours of the night, laughing, smoking and scuffing up my floors. Dudes like them used to grasp at your ankles for relevance, but now they're big time. What part of the game is that?
I don't know. It's just...there's minimal compromise with you. And any attempts from you to ameliorate our problems are too often flimsy and incomplete. When I want to play a record from front to back like we used to do with The Infamous or ATLiens, you give me a couple dope tracks and filler. When I want to listen to the breaks on two turntables and a crossfader, you always want to play me a ringtone.
When your sartorial swagger changed, I didn't quite know how to adapt. We paired famously when you were all about baggy jeans, hoodies and tan Timbs. But now you're throwing me off with these extra-medium jeans and black male Mohawks; I feel like I'm kicking it with Prince and the Revolution these days.
I try really hard to keep up with you in public, but nothing in creation - not even you - can get me in a pair of skinny jeans.
I feel like you bring around new cats like Saigon and Lupe Fiasco just to shut me up. But a couple measly ill emcees can't make up for years of relationship neglect. Honestly, Royce Da 5'9" and Black Milk are your versions of the rich husband giving his wife a tennis bracelet and necklace to make up for his prolonged absence. But it just won't work with me.
 Remember 1992 when you made everyone reminisce over you? Remember a year later when you took us to infinity?
Well, I haven't stopped reminiscing, and that's the problem: I use those memories to remind me why I'm still with you. I loved you more back in the old days because you still listened to me, and you still res
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