Scene kids

The syntax of your hedonistic lives is based on ludicris stereotypes you gormlessly watch on tv.
You kid yourself into justifying cross dressing faux pas to achieve the ultimate skinny leg jeans. You complain about the texture of your broken dyed hair, what happened to nature? To natural beauty?
You. You and your faggot friends infect areas of normal people into stupid little posses that hate each other - starting with a warfar of grey baggy bottoms versus tight skinny primark jeans.

Originality cannot be achieved if you base yourself on fake prisms of perfection.

You swill your mouths with the alcohol of the proletariat - straight cutting and cheap. You fill your mouths with bits of shrapnell, one more thing to rip out.  One more reminder of the mutilation of your body. Glaring chunks of red green and blue sitting unevenly in the mop like head that possesses half of a powdered White face. 

You think I'm a backstabber, I'm not.
The real knives are in every mutilation of your face, with every new piercing the insults add up until you topple under the pressure if it all.