Something is wrong. Chain bookstores smell of seduction and
lobotomy. First World poverty being marketed as Third World
luxury. Those girls look and smell overwhelmingly like plastic
puff pastries; I forget where I am going. No one stops to listen
to the band with a bucket-bassist and ghungroo-percussionist.
My precarious envy-admiration balance is suddenly way off.
Snow is banal with sunlight and efficiency. No fruit all day.
No sign of bliss. Every sound an irritation except this:
Spicy noodles aren't spicy. I don't have a crush on anyone.
Laundromat's givin' me the weepies, and not the good kind.
In other words: look at this fuckin' hipster.
lobotomy. First World poverty being marketed as Third World
luxury. Those girls look and smell overwhelmingly like plastic
puff pastries; I forget where I am going. No one stops to listen
to the band with a bucket-bassist and ghungroo-percussionist.
My precarious envy-admiration balance is suddenly way off.
Snow is banal with sunlight and efficiency. No fruit all day.
No sign of bliss. Every sound an irritation except this:
Spicy noodles aren't spicy. I don't have a crush on anyone.
Laundromat's givin' me the weepies, and not the good kind.
In other words: look at this fuckin' hipster.
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