say anything
Admit it!
Despite your pesudo-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 styles of music and art.
Go analog, baby; you're so post-modern.
You're diving face forward into an antiquated past. 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 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.
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're a faker, you're a fraud. You're living a lie, 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?
Yeah, what do you have to say for yourself?
Despite your pesudo-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 styles of music and art.
Go analog, baby; you're so post-modern.
You're diving face forward into an antiquated past. 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 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.
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're a faker, you're a fraud. You're living a lie, 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?
Yeah, what do you have to say for yourself?