admit it.
So on the way home from my track meet i was listening to say anything, and wow this song really reminds me of someone.
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 (bullshit),
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, its offensive, don’t stick your nose up at me
yeah, 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.
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 bitching about!
Yeah, what do you have to say for yourself?
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.
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 worry about how this album will sell.
because I believe it will determine the amount of sex I will have in the future
I self medicate with drugs and alcohol to treat my extreme social anxiety
You are a faker. admit it.
You are a fraud. admit it.
yeah, you’re 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.
Yeah, what do you have to say for yourself.
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 (bullshit),
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, its offensive, don’t stick your nose up at me
yeah, 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.
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 bitching about!
Yeah, what do you have to say for yourself?
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.
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 worry about how this album will sell.
because I believe it will determine the amount of sex I will have in the future
I self medicate with drugs and alcohol to treat my extreme social anxiety
You are a faker. admit it.
You are a fraud. admit it.
yeah, you’re 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.
Yeah, what do you have to say for yourself.