I do not want your bearded, beanied nonsense strumming lovesick medleys on your old acoustic. I don't want homemade organic whole wheat pancakes, filled with corner berries and stuffed with chia. Leave your goddamn bike at the door and every word about it. I don't care that you're doing your part because it's pronounced beyond measure.
Don't tell me to love. Don't tell me how much I should love. Don't lift me up and tell me I can do whatever I want, don't say the world is mine. I can't, and it isn't. You woodworking, farmers market, lazy, happy, progressive, tiresome, cigarette-rolling, dreadful, dreadlocked faker. I've seen your kind and I have your number. You only care about caring. And you care about so much, don't you? I bet you can hardly stand it.
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