Thursday, May 26, 2011

Admit it.

Despite your pseudo-bohemian appearance and vaguely leftist doctrine of beliefs, you know nothing about art or sex that you couldn't read in any trendy new york underground fashion magazine.

You're a prototypical non-conformist; A vacuous soldier of the thrift-store gestapo.

You adhere to a set of standards and tastes that appear to be determined by an unseen panel of hipster judges (bullshit), giving your thumbs up and thumbs down to incoming and outgoing trends and styles of music and art.

You're diving face forward into an antiquated past. It's disgusting, it's offensive. Don't stick your nose up at me.

What do you have to say for yourself?



You spend your time sitting in circles with your friends, pontificating to each other, forever competing for that one moment of self aggrandizing glory in which you hog the intellectual spotlight, holding dominion over the entire shallow, pointless conversation. But, oh, we're not worthy.

When you walk by a group of quote-unquote "normal" people, you chuckle to yourself, patting yourself on the back as you scoff. It's the same superority complex shared by the high school jocks who made your life a living hell, and it makes you a slave to the competitive capitalist dogma you spend every moment of your waking life bitching about.

What do you have to say for yourself?

You are a faker, admit it.
You are a fraud, admit it.
You're living a lie.
Your life is living a lie.

You don't impress me.
You don't intimidate me.

Why don't you bow down, get on the ground, walk this fucking plank?

'Cause I'm proud of my life and the things that I have done.
Proud of myself and the loner I've become.
You're free to whine; It will not get you far.
I do just fine, my car and my guitar.

And I am done with this.

When I'm dead, I'll rest.

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