I could tell a thousand stories about a boy.
There are dry crystals of DXM on the desk on which he writes CVs, and as he writes he listens to Lou Reed because of his apparent lack of knowledge of Reed's back catalogue.
He takes Molly on Friday nights, because rappers say its cool, how could Chief Keef be an idol to reasonable people? Spouting buzzwords and memes in public places, hoping to be noticed and applauded for a knowledge of he knows not what.
The Twitter feed reads like toilet paper, with less information
Fooling himself into thinking that he needs that rapid a-disinformation
He wonders why there are still advertisements for MySpace, is it not dead yet?
He uses a trusted torrent search engine to download every episode of TV shows he watches religiously. Is that not an indicator of a profoundly unhappy person?
A liberal thinker in his own right yet still regards the BBC as having unabashed liberal motifs haphazardly forced into all of its programming and news coverage.
Why have hashtags stumbled into the global lexicon, and is this an example of cultural Marxism?
Why is he never noticed?
That sweet jazz serenade that emanates from speakers in his lonely house, is but melancholy drones, might as well be Tim Hecker as opposed to Jack Teagarden. His record collection is vast, the smell of vinyl pungent and nostalgic. Obsolete so they may be, but those indie movies sure make them seem cool.
Oh he watches Truffaut, Fellini, Tarr and Michael Snow, he does it to appear cultured, but to who? Since nobody exists. Antiutopian music videos, depicting *** and violence, he could make crass judgments on society but he knows that he loves that Robin Thicke video and what Kanye West did with New Slaves.
Spending hours at a time, ******* to amateur **** on some seedy site and pictures of girls that he probably shouldn't have seen.  And after such laborious efforts he can return to an endless cycle of hitting F5 on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, 4chan, 420chan, VICE, TheYNC, BBC News, Mishka, 2DopeBoyz, World-Star Hip-Hop, Fetlife and Hello Poetry. Amassing information and retaining so little that it hardly seems worthwhile.
Yes he reads, when so many do not. Nabokovian purple prose and the way Bukowski was so ******. He read Poe in elementary because 'goth' was new to him, and now he loves Whitman, Plotinus and St. John of the Cross because Ginsberg mentions them in Howl and Other Poems.
He uses words he doesn't understand like 'catechism', 'ecclesiology' and 'female ******'.
A sprawling mass of words, never ending streams of thoughts, the constant reminder of drudgery in modern times. Wishing he was from some other period, but the idea is ridiculous in and of itself.
He makes crass jokes and thinks they're actually funny.
He's lost. He's empty. He's sad and he's a fraud, its how I knew him best.
 Even after brushing the back of his hand across the surface in hopes of ridding the cheap IKEA MDF of tobacco and cannabis leaves.
 Information he can use in further conversation, fooling himself into thinking it matters or that anybody cares of his extensive knowledge and new found love of Songs for Drella since Lou's passing.
 The same can be said about Codeine that purple dream. Promethazine, in the bloodstream, enough to make a grown man lean
 Why even use toilet paper anyway, did the Mother Nature Network not provide a convincing enough argument for the use of a bidet?
 Especially considering he cannot watch said shows without marijuana, painkillers, dissociatives, opiates or all of the above. A consequential addict.
 Why too must we have 24 hour news? Many wasted hours spent filling time with puff pieces, non-news, celebrity gossip and speculation. When did news stop making the news, why is this only a new phenomenon, and can we always just blame the internet? #NEWS
 He won't admit that he doesn't actually understand the intricacies of cultural Marxism but willingly throws the phrase about each room, hoping to be noticed.
 More noise to drown out the bipolar thoughts and ringing in his ears from years of abuse at punk rock shows and over crowded, dangerously loud clubs and free parties.
 He still maintains a last.fm account out of some convoluted sense of self-worth
 He could just watch The Hangover, The Fast and Furious and Transformers, perhaps he'll make friends that way. #CommonInterests.
 He still makes aforementioned judgements whilst never outright damming his favoured videos.
 He is a hero of our time, and Pechorin rolls in his grave at the sentiment.
 The author of this "poem" does not actually know the subject.