"Everyone thinks you’re so weird,"
It’s something I hear often,
And it’s eternally vexing,
I can never learn to master myself,
To avoid that eternal stigma.
I can’t even figure out,
What the hell makes me “weird,”
It can’t be because of my unconventional tastes,
Because in those that are so much prettier than I,
"Weird," becomes "cultured," "quirky," and "exotic,"
Surely humanity isn’t so shallow,
That they’re more forgiving to the attractive people,
But even so why is the unconventional a bad thing?
Why so much stigma against liking what we like?
From what I’ve seen of conformity,
It’s just so boring,
Skull fuckingly idiotic,
And mentally and spiritually crushing,
Why be myself,
When I can throw myself into the meat grinder,
And crapped out a uniform, tasteless patty,
Something that is mass made,
Must be infinitely better,
I’d rather be that weirdo,
Than to live that bitter, tasteless, life,
A life that is ultimately unsatisfying,
The living equivalent of jacking off,
I’ll gladly hang out with the other weirdos,
They at least know who they are,
And they know what they want to do,
They live as themselves and love others who do as well,
It’s sad that those are “weird” qualities,
But that does so explain our world.