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. proto-typical 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 your thumbs up and 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 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. 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, 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? 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 help treat my extreme social anxiety problem. 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? i drift, drift, drift, drift, drift, and i am done with this, i wanna taste the breeze of every great city. my car and my guitar, my car and my guitar. so you'll come to be, made of these urges unfulfilled, oh no, no, no, no, no, when I'm dead I'll rest, when I'm dead I'll rest, lay still. when I'm dead I'll rest.