Teenage Dirtbag

I'm just a teenage dirtbag baby,

Like you.

We're all teenage dirtbags now. All of us, with our funny accents, big cars, designer labels, iPods, fast food, boyfriends, girlfriends, empty physicality and so much more that makes us all the same.

The same thoughts, the same ambitions, the same aspirations. As if the world really does revolve around whether or not you manage to get the latest whatever-it-is-that-you-want. It hits all of us. Even those of us who pretend to be disgusted by this breed, we're part of it and it does affect us. We start giving a damn about how ugly someone is, we like being vindictive, because of course, bitchy is the shit.

It's not other people's fault when they refuse to see you for what you are, and judge you instead by your possessions, because there is no you. You're just a jumble of stuff that you have, that you want, and at one point or another, you're the same. Because the lines intersect, and your material possessions are the same as other people's. Your conversations are empty, you talk about altering your noses, boobs, legs, whatever it is that can be altered, about snatching up a rich boy,like, asap, about how ugly some whore is, and about how not getting the latest mp3 player puts you in a life threatening situation.

You think you can buy the world with daddy's money, and you think it's enough to get you by without anything substantial in that pretty little head of yours, adorning the latest haircut which you managed to get for some 10000 rupees.

And daddy showers his riches on you. Do you ever wonder where daddy got them from?

You may not know the order of the alphabet, but you have the accent. Oh yes. The accent, the pretentious, I-don't-know-my-own-language accent. And even if you don't, there's other things that make you the same.

Stop dragging me with you into your materialistic little worlds of boyfriends and blowjobs, girls and how many you've fucked, how much designerwear you own, how SEXY your car is, how amazing you are, how much money your daddy gave you to celebrate your 18th birthday and so on.

I don't want any of it, I don't want to be part of you.

Just. Sod. Off.

Leave my brain be, you've wasted it enough already.