Admit it!

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. Prototypical non-conformist, you are 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, giving a thumbs up or thumbs down to incoming and outgoing trends and styles of music and art. Go analog baby, you're so post-modern. You're diving face forward into a antiquated path. It's disgusting, it's offensive, don't stick your nose up at me.

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. 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 superiority complex shared by the high school jocks who made your life a living hell, and makes you a slave to the competitive capitalist dogma. You spend every moment of your waking life complaining.

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, me and my car. Well let me tell you this, I am shamelessly self-involved. I spend hours in front of the mirror, making my hair elegantly disheveled. I self medicate to treat my extreme social anxiety.

You are a faker, you are a fraud. Yeah, you're living a lie, living a lie, you're 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 stupid plank. Yeah, what do you have to say for yourself .

I am done with this.