You know who you are. You're that boy who thinks he's enlightened. You've read an awful lot of Thoreau and aren't you just your very own little road scholar. You're mysterious, I know. I'll just bet you have a manifesto. Bet you keep it under your pillow. Or under lock-and-key, safely hidden on your hard drive. Don't worry. No one is going to try to steal it, I promise.

I bet you have a vision for the future. And you're gonna get shot for your radical beliefs too, I'm sure. You spout sarcasm like it's the second cumming of Christ. Your vocabulary is outrageous. When you don't know what a word means (which is pretty damn often, admit it), you roll your eyes and change the subject. Because things you haven't heard of must not be that important anyway. You've never considered yourself good-looking. Guess what? Neither have we.

I bet your childhood was tragic. Bet mommy and daddy (you have both your parents, stop lying) made you go to church every damn day. The only tragic thing about your childhood is that it wasn't tragic enough for you to have the right to bitch about anything. Somehow, that turned you into a little bitch.

Tyler fucking Durden is your hero. You and all your friends and the guys on the sides you'll never meet. Wake the fuck up: Everybody has seen Fight Club. And you couldn't take a punch from your little sister. When's the last time you bled for anything?

I bet you can play the guitar. Or, guitar hero anyway. What do you know? Crash into Me and Stairway to Heaven. Either of those ever get you laid? Didn't think so. Have you ever gotten laid? If you say no, it's because girls are just sluts, right? Even though you know in your heart of hearts that if Jenny Sorostitute ever made a pass at you, you'd seizure on top of her until your brain exploded. Doesn't matter anyway, cause I bet you're asexual. No, sex is for lesser organisms. Not demi-gods like you.

You drink coffee by the barrel and you love ramen and social commentary because you yourself are chock-full of useful social commentary. You voted for Obama or you didn't vote at all because hey, it doesn't matter anyway, and it certainly won't matter when your New World Order comes into play. You're a vain son of a bitch (wasn't she a bitch?) but that's only because you have a right to be.

That girl? The one who somehow deems you worthy of conversation? Stop putting her on a pedestal. She's gonna say no. I promise. Just like every other stupid whore before her.

You live in your parent's basement or in a shittastic apartment with your high school lackey. The friends who don't speak to you anymore weren't good enough for you anyway. Your skin has been bleached from the glow of a computer screen and your eyes are always bloodshot.

You know who you are.