Listening to Bad Religion...

Maybe you loaned me your car in good faith, and I wrecked it, leaving you without a way to get to work. But I don’t give a crap, because I’m rebellious.

Maybe you needed comforting in your darkest hour, and I tried, I really tried for a little while, but ultimately couldn’t be bothered to do much, because, you see, I’m rebellious.

I wanna live in your house, eat your food, stink up your bathroom, spend your money and expect you to listen to every low-birthrate idea I have as if it’s the gospel, all while I call you every name in the book, because I’m rebellious.

Yeah, that was your little sister I experimented on last night, and even while she cried tears of blood to you as you begged her to go to the doctor, the embarrassing pain kept her locked in her room. Sorry about that. I’m rebellious.

My poetry is facile, my valor paper-thin, and my bravery short-lived, but I’ll fill your ears with my rage. And if in fact if it came to an actual fight, I’d hide behind you. I’m tough as nails as far as I know: I’m rebellious.

I embrace collectivism, except for me (can’t go with the crowd, now can we?). Religion sucks, except what the church of what I want right now. I’ll wipe my ass with anything you hold sacred, and I’ll burn down your house to toast marshmallows.

I’m rebellious.