This Raging Sociophobe

Fuck you social types. You stink. You're false, you need cheap mediums to have cheap thrills. You're all so false. Thats the alcohol talking, thats the cigarette in your yellow fingers sending visual vibes of confidence. You're so self-concious you think smoking can help. You might have perfect teeth, but you eat shit. Your breath smells like mint, but you've got crap rotting in your stomach. Festering. You wear make-up to hide the monster beneath, a mask to keep the puss from dripping out. You click amongst each other, in some sort of cacophony of whoops and fake sounds. I don't have the voicebox for that, but I can hear it. I want to rip out my ear-drums. You think you're all perfect, yet you're all so insecure. You think you're all unique, yet you herd like domesticated beasts before an abbatoir and you can't smell the blood in the air. All you see is the ass in your face from the beast in front of you. Mindless. You all conform, and think the unconformists are the ones that break the social clothing order. You're all zombies. Thats the media thinking. Thats your idea of what a conformist should do. Thats your sense of fashion. What the fuck is fashion anyway? Fashion is just uniforms for slaves. Fuck you hollywood and all the filth you spread. You're a disease. You are herpes of the heighest and itchy-ist order and everyone shags you. You filthy whore. Go and clean yourself up before you get judged. Take that bleach and wash away all that dirt, you maggot infested living corpse.