If I Could Take That Cigarette Back, I Would

Dear Guitar-Playing, Hippie-Dancing, Smoke-Bumming Sidewalk Dweller: You're free. I get it. You're drifting, "maaaan", you're like Jack Kerouac on STEROIDS, minus the intelligence and literary talent or any other redeeming quality Jack Kerouac had. But listen the fuck up. I had the decency to give you a cigarette when you asked me. I even let your dirty, unwashed-in-decades hands touch my lighter. Yet you have the balls to go on some pathetic speech telling me I'm not free? That I'm not really living? That I should sell my possessions, stick my fucking thumb out on the TransCanada highway and start being a real person? Motherfuck you! I like my car. I like my apartment. I like having money to blow on material items. I fucking LOVE being a part of the consumerist machine. If that makes me less of a person than your sorry never-gonna-contribute-to-society-because-I'm-a-worthless-piece-of-shit ass, then I no longer understand this world. —Just Another Slave to Materialism