I'm pretty good at pretending I'm a teenager. I paint my face and sell my charm. Maybe someone will read this. My alarm clock is the cue card from the local news, and they're telling us there's nothing we can do about it. Well maybe there is something we can do about it. It's the mediocre anthems we lose our virginity to and the bathroom sinks in which we leave our supper. We map our futures through clouded eyes and exchange newborn ideas that fade into lies. It's a vulnerable queen and the winter on her knees. It's a brooding savage mind and a paperback romance, it's 3:45 am, it's shame, it's pride, it's life.

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