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(, Sun 1 Apr 2001, 1:00)
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No-one understands my pain. Apart from 'emotional hardcore' musicians from America. I have written the names of these artistes upon my bag to display my affinity with their oeuvre. Thus like-minded individuals can see at a glance the anguish that only I and the many thousands of identically-dressed 'individuals' who populate the 'emotional hardccore' scene feel just from EXISTING in this bleak world.
For I am, you see, a spectactular gaylord.
(, Tue 8 Nov 2011, 8:26, 3 replies, latest was 14 years ago)
Then I shall compose a short poem about my anguish.
(, Tue 8 Nov 2011, 8:31, Reply)
My soul
Is like a black hole
Black like coal
Not the footballer, you understand - just my little joke, aha
But my anus is purple and distended
Like those monkeys you see
on David Attenborough
It's also covered with polyps
And there's a nasty skid on one of my buttocks.
THE END
(, Tue 8 Nov 2011, 8:43, Reply)
your miserable visage would pop up.
(, Tue 8 Nov 2011, 8:45, Reply)
I can see you enjoying a nice glass of milk with Ian MacKaye
(, Tue 8 Nov 2011, 8:48, Reply)
I love those chaps and their emotional intensity. Like that utter flid Rollins who really should just fucking cheer up - or shut up.
(, Tue 8 Nov 2011, 8:52, Reply)
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