this is a story about kids. Kids on Pabst blue sofas, covered in socital waste and breeding lackluster generational creativity. I think I spent more time staring off into space than acutally writing this fucking whatever it is. whatever it was, whatever it wasn't. Small mechaical genius congealing with so-so productivity to create everything was my life for a short while.
and i still carry it with me.
i carry it with me in my blood soaked sweat soaked sex soaked caps.
Elliot smith has got nothing on the bitterweet making moves of a post-excited genteration of fed-up fatal fleecing angst called, my life as a teenage human being in 2008.
Eat shit Dostoyevsky, bon iver's got my back.
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