People are fucking clowns. I don't even think I need to say more. You might be one of them. You might care about what is in style and how your hair and makeup match you fake snakeskin ankle boots and belt. You might have footless leggings on under your mini skirt right now, and you might be thinking, "I'm not a clown." Well, you are.
Everyday you wake up and put on your fucking clown outfit. I see you. Stuffing your bra so it fills out your trendy jumper or whatever sick thing is in style this minute. You put all that makeup on, pink circles on your cheeks, mascara and liner on the bottom lashes and lid that just makes you look old. You put on your skinny jeans that make your ass look fat and your old, scuffed, second-hand flats that make your big feet look even bigger. Your hair is messed up just right and you are sure to have your trendy gold hobo with your Tmobile sidekick or whatever monstrosity is in there. You are a clown.
Why don't you paint on a happy or sad face while you are at it. Maybe a glistening tear falling from the corner of the right eye so I'll understand just how angsty and tormented you really are. So I'll be sure that you go home and really rock out to your fucking emo bands and cry to yourself over a mug of boxed wine about how your daddy took away one of your credit cards and is making you take the subway instead of paying a driver to take you everywhere.
I wouldn't care about you, except for the fact that I run into your traveling circus everywhere I go. You are on every street corner, smoking your virginia slims and laughing at the latest article in some fashion rag...oh my god, Kate Moss did what? To who? Like, totally....You are in my way. You stop in the middle of the sidewalk, waddle your fat asses too slowly down the street and talk on your cell phones at every subway entrance in the city. Here's the deal: You are not important. Your unique-in-the-same-exact-way cohorts are not important. No one cares about you.
Do us all a favor and disappear you fucking clowns.
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