Untitled Part 5

Navel lint. It’s a funny thing. Sometimes you’ll poke away at that shit for hours, kind of like a lot of pseudo-writers these days.

You all know the ones…

Bored, hipster, navel lint pokers. You know the ones: overly bed head hair, malnourished looking – not because they can’t afford food, but because they’d much rather spend the money that they “earn” from looking forlorn at their local record store one day a week on seeing some Indie hipster who is the mirror image of them on stage at Scissors, or Step, or Junkett, or Fabesque or whatever the shit the new hangout is, and the smart phone or tablet that they’ll no doubt be shoving in your face to record said concert instead of watching said fucking concert.

There will be Instagram pics, and Facebook check-ins, and a selfie in front of your fucking face – with the flash on – and some poor bastard squint/scowling in the background (you of course).

Then they’ll go home and express how utterly meaningless the world is on their blogs. Kind of like what I’m doing now – minus the waif-like disdain and “selfies”.

Rinse and repeat fuckers.

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~ by lechatnoirmon on July 3, 2013.

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