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She Bangs

I don't listen to what you listen to art freak. I don't have the means to be popular outside the lazy fingers of half-hearted pedophiles who reap the sick harvest off of the Internet search engines. I don't exist outside this HTML clusterfuck. I don't go out. I don't like to be I a warehouse with more than one person; I don't have a tattoo of a Cherokee feather on my temple.

I love fucking Baby Bash. I live for that shit. I get too close to Next. I get really gay on some Radio crack shit, popping off bored eardrums. I cry a little bit when Aaron Neville tells it like it is.

I like Hall and Oates. But only the two most popular songs. The same goes for whatever credible band you might be thinking of. Only two songs. Only the chorus.

What I'm trying to tell you is that my bangs do not denote any kind of cultural superiority based in explicitly pretentious music tastes.

They just hide the blemishes on my forehead. For which they are solely responsible.

Once, I dreamt a butch lesbian called my bangs stupid and said that if i lost about ten pounds, then she might consider dating me.

Well Dream Lesbian, you go straight to hell and break your strap inside the devils asshole. These bangs are fucking tremendous.

I don't need to have good taste in anything to entertain your eyes.


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