My earliest memory was raping the babysitter when I was 5...she was 15.

They call me Superman, leap tall hoes in a single bound.

I just can't sit back and wallow, In my own sorrow, but I know one fact: I'll be one tough act to follow.

I realize that some people see going away as, "Oh, he's irrelevant now," but I feel like if I don't go away, I get sick of myself. It's never been my thing to be in the spotlight all the time.

Nothing on 'Relapse' and very little on 'Recovery' was produced by me.

We just kept moving back and forth because my mother never had a job. We kept getting kicked out of every house we were in. I believe six months was the longest we ever lived in a house.

I like it when people talk s**t. Because if people weren't talking s**t, there would be nothing for me to come back with. I need that. If I don't have any ammo, what am I going to say?