Vivid iKid

Visited the bullshit bar of my high school hometown.

Looking for the winning combination, the knock out blow? Well, if you're face looked like it just returned from rehab, from being pounded by a boxing glove several hundred times, you were in good shape. And I don't mean deformed. And I don't mean bloody. That would be nice, actually. I mean faceless. Hot shit you might say.

Girls: prance around and giggle for these prize fighters, these protectors, these rough-sloggers. You have nothing to live for anyways besides that typecast misogony of a culture you find security in.

The game is to play it. To drink it. Forget it.

Dance now on the dance square that's empty. Let red light coverup your plastic cheeks. Subjugate the enemy -- the ones who like meaning.

Underground here is using logic. Indie here is caring. Caring means not buying in. Withold your dollars now. Don't play those cards. Fold -- patience pays, right?

So sketch out your monsters in graphite behind glasses and toque. You'll be out of this shithole soon enough. Underachiever, even you can succeed. It doesn't take much...a brain maybe. Nah...just half a brain. The colours flow diagonally across the canvas, but think outside the frame. Don't waste your breath. Shut your fucking mouth. Calgary Jory. Calgary. Fuck yeh.

"That's right."

It'll catch on.

And their disease won't trap me. Thank you very much!

I have a promised return to life.