Stickin' out like a sore thumb...
Well, first time breaking Alex's no bad things in front of the journal rule.
Went with Steve to work out some of the glitches in his swing dancing, lent him $15, still haven't gotten it back. Fuck you Steve, that's $45 on your tab, you fucking loser. Anyway, I was gone out in Green Firs with Steve and miscellaneous slutty bitch, trying to get them to figure out enough Lindy Hop to be able to teach Steve's parent's friends. Wasted the hours from 1 to 6 there, with two mooching smokers, and unskilled dancers. Steve only wants to get into her pants, which makes me sick, especially considering the low caliber of human scum that she is. You can call me rude bitch, but I was only a fraction of as rude to you as you were to me, skank. Besides, don't fucking lie about being able to do something that you can't, its fucking pathetic. Steve managed to whore himself for a ride home, so I got to spend time listening to the Testosterone laden garbage known as Tool, and dealing with Steve's friend, whom I also dislike for similar moronic pursuit of the opposite sex.
After this debacle I was bored out of my mind, and my brother's friends called and invited me to go with them to this concert at the Usual. I accepted. A shower and a shave later, they came by and picked me up. I, dressed in standard Stu-wear, jetted out the door.
Two of my brother's friends I was with were great, Don can be an ass, but he's funny and extremely creative, and Rob is a giant fucking teddy bear, and one of the coolest guys I know. Joe, however, Joe gets on my nerves. He's not annoying per se, but he makes really fucking stupid jokes, and has questionable status among my list of desirable company.
Now comes the Usual, and the source of my depression. We arrive at our destination, pay our six dollar fee, and chill in the lobby while an indy rock band jams in the main room. I drink my patheticly mixed Chai, and manage to humilate myself at pinball, which blows, because I mother fucking rock at pinball. The machine was flawed. The right flipper stuck, and it wasn't at enough of an angle to increase ball speed significantly. Evan of Two Wheels Flat was there, so I chit chatted with him, avoiding the issue at hand.
Am I a poser?
No.
Did I fit in at the Usual?
No.
Sorry to all of you who thought that I wasn't strung out, or "revolutionary", or artistic to even sit in the Idle Wild you treasure so. I wasn't building anything with legos, or trying to dance to music without a descernable beat. Nor was I drunkedly shouting suggestions to the band, though I'm sure you were having a simply marvelous time. So go fuck yourself, you stuck up Coffee House scensters. Eat your own shit, and choke on the subsequent puke for all I care. So I'm the fucknig Bay Leaf in your stew. Present, and Evedent, but only serving as the annoying crunchy bit, that tastes nothing like the main dish, only like itself. Apparently I'm not revolutionary enough to take up space in your little psuedo marxist cantina, you mindless cunts. So you stared at me. I didn't fucking care. So you pointed at me. I still didn't care. Then you ignored me. Fuck off, I've spent enough time under the shadow of my brothers to be ignored by some stupid bitch that thinks that the $6 they spent to get in is worth so very much more than the same wad I cash I blew.
Truth be told, I wouldn't doubt that I'm ten times as creative as those bean brew monkeys, and surely I bleed as least as red as Eugene Debs. Perhaps I was too well groomed. Maybe my sweater and tie threw them off. A gentle smile and quiet eyes must have offended them greatly, in retrospect. My Converse, corderoy, and customized jacket was simply too corporate to fit into their indy-commie microcosim.
Apparently the slogan for the revolution is to drink coke, or consume the world's second most traded commodity, or talk about how much you hate the wealth of massive multinational entities over your AT&T cellphone. Apparently hippocracy is a virtue.
Die in pigshit, you simpleton whores. Die in motherfucking pigshit.
I'm not punk enough for punk. Not hep enough for jazz. Not rude enough for ska. Not black enough for blues. Not Jamaican enough for reggae. Not revolutionary enough for communism. Not smart enough for debate.
I'll tell you what I am.
Beyond your fucking deffinition.
And certainly really fucking pissed off about your response.
Fuck the melting pot, here's to stew.
And no, I don't want to try and get into a bar, nor do I want to hang out with drunkards, nor do I want to waste my money on soured grain.
Die in pigshit, die in pigshit, die in motherfucking, smelly, rank, chunky, pestilent pigshit, you psuedo intellectual, psuedo revolutionary, psuedo artist trash.
You make me fucking sick.
And, my modem is all fucked up, so you won't hear from me in a while
Went with Steve to work out some of the glitches in his swing dancing, lent him $15, still haven't gotten it back. Fuck you Steve, that's $45 on your tab, you fucking loser. Anyway, I was gone out in Green Firs with Steve and miscellaneous slutty bitch, trying to get them to figure out enough Lindy Hop to be able to teach Steve's parent's friends. Wasted the hours from 1 to 6 there, with two mooching smokers, and unskilled dancers. Steve only wants to get into her pants, which makes me sick, especially considering the low caliber of human scum that she is. You can call me rude bitch, but I was only a fraction of as rude to you as you were to me, skank. Besides, don't fucking lie about being able to do something that you can't, its fucking pathetic. Steve managed to whore himself for a ride home, so I got to spend time listening to the Testosterone laden garbage known as Tool, and dealing with Steve's friend, whom I also dislike for similar moronic pursuit of the opposite sex.
After this debacle I was bored out of my mind, and my brother's friends called and invited me to go with them to this concert at the Usual. I accepted. A shower and a shave later, they came by and picked me up. I, dressed in standard Stu-wear, jetted out the door.
Two of my brother's friends I was with were great, Don can be an ass, but he's funny and extremely creative, and Rob is a giant fucking teddy bear, and one of the coolest guys I know. Joe, however, Joe gets on my nerves. He's not annoying per se, but he makes really fucking stupid jokes, and has questionable status among my list of desirable company.
Now comes the Usual, and the source of my depression. We arrive at our destination, pay our six dollar fee, and chill in the lobby while an indy rock band jams in the main room. I drink my patheticly mixed Chai, and manage to humilate myself at pinball, which blows, because I mother fucking rock at pinball. The machine was flawed. The right flipper stuck, and it wasn't at enough of an angle to increase ball speed significantly. Evan of Two Wheels Flat was there, so I chit chatted with him, avoiding the issue at hand.
Am I a poser?
No.
Did I fit in at the Usual?
No.
Sorry to all of you who thought that I wasn't strung out, or "revolutionary", or artistic to even sit in the Idle Wild you treasure so. I wasn't building anything with legos, or trying to dance to music without a descernable beat. Nor was I drunkedly shouting suggestions to the band, though I'm sure you were having a simply marvelous time. So go fuck yourself, you stuck up Coffee House scensters. Eat your own shit, and choke on the subsequent puke for all I care. So I'm the fucknig Bay Leaf in your stew. Present, and Evedent, but only serving as the annoying crunchy bit, that tastes nothing like the main dish, only like itself. Apparently I'm not revolutionary enough to take up space in your little psuedo marxist cantina, you mindless cunts. So you stared at me. I didn't fucking care. So you pointed at me. I still didn't care. Then you ignored me. Fuck off, I've spent enough time under the shadow of my brothers to be ignored by some stupid bitch that thinks that the $6 they spent to get in is worth so very much more than the same wad I cash I blew.
Truth be told, I wouldn't doubt that I'm ten times as creative as those bean brew monkeys, and surely I bleed as least as red as Eugene Debs. Perhaps I was too well groomed. Maybe my sweater and tie threw them off. A gentle smile and quiet eyes must have offended them greatly, in retrospect. My Converse, corderoy, and customized jacket was simply too corporate to fit into their indy-commie microcosim.
Apparently the slogan for the revolution is to drink coke, or consume the world's second most traded commodity, or talk about how much you hate the wealth of massive multinational entities over your AT&T cellphone. Apparently hippocracy is a virtue.
Die in pigshit, you simpleton whores. Die in motherfucking pigshit.
I'm not punk enough for punk. Not hep enough for jazz. Not rude enough for ska. Not black enough for blues. Not Jamaican enough for reggae. Not revolutionary enough for communism. Not smart enough for debate.
I'll tell you what I am.
Beyond your fucking deffinition.
And certainly really fucking pissed off about your response.
Fuck the melting pot, here's to stew.
And no, I don't want to try and get into a bar, nor do I want to hang out with drunkards, nor do I want to waste my money on soured grain.
Die in pigshit, die in pigshit, die in motherfucking, smelly, rank, chunky, pestilent pigshit, you psuedo intellectual, psuedo revolutionary, psuedo artist trash.
You make me fucking sick.
And, my modem is all fucked up, so you won't hear from me in a while