Real motherfucking talk

Once upon a time, your shit was fresh and exciting. Alas, it could not endure time, repetition, and your short attention-span. Shit got old. It became part of the vicious cyclical monotony that you call your gig. When your shit is played out, staler than month-old saltines, the logical thing to do is to move on to newer shit. But you don't and won't want to. You're fatalistic and are satisfied with that which soothes your obsessive-compulsive desire to maintain normalcy. Day in, day out you're exhausting your shit's ability to entertain you. You are the idiot who doesn't have an e-mail address because you believe the internet is a conspiracy. The idiot who doesn't believe in global warming or believes that there are forces that govern our universe donning halos and wings. It's pretentious to say but I know this and you may not. I have self-awareness and you are a buffoon.