Hey. Check me out.

th(e)(br)inks to(g)o much **more than he ought to**

sla(nder)(su)cks mo(‘)re(petition) th(e)an(swer) a sno(wcone)r(e)lax

rhy(thym)mes(s) li(es)ke(ep) a pi(ous)s(as)s po(ssible)or p(ass)o(ut)et(c.)

li(ngers)(in)ves(ting) in ac(tive)(dis)cor(safety)dance with (an) iron(will)y and hip(hop)ocrisy

I’m sure you probably can’t read that.

The author is a boy who lives in Tree City, split between 2 households.

He keeps dishonest company.

He disregards truth as a constant.

He writes.

He feels unchallenged artistically.

He wants more from life.

He is descended directly from beat poets. (But it doesn’t show.)

He smells of D-76, vinyl, and cheap deodorant.

He seems contented by the world, but isn’t.

He eats at the Fleetwood regularly.

He sings to himself frequently.

He loves chocolate milk and coffee.

He says he hates clichés, but realizes he is one.

He cannot wait until he figures everything out.


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