You are who you fuck — or so I am told. In this miserable city where status is gold, I’ve seen shit-eating people who claw their way up, looking for the acceptance that they never got. It’s all about winning the meat-market games among all the rejects, dropouts and fakes. Did everyone give you the attention you seek? Whose arm are you draped on this fucking week? Trophy boys and trohpy girls, go fuck yourselves. I hate your world. Fairweather friends are keeping score. Name-dropper, name-fucker, you’re a fucking whore.1
For all its rampant paranoia and barely veiled envy, I still love the passion and desire for a less shallow world you see in great hardcore bands’ lyrics.
- The Suicide File : Some Mistakes You Never Stop Paying For : Now Lie In It↩