[Perndog]

The sad thing is that when the kids who write this poetry grow out of their whiny depressed phase they turn from lame, boring angst-filled teenagers into lame, boring suburban adults with 2.3 kids, a dog, a white picket fence and a constant feeling of "is this really all there is to life? Am I missing out on something?" until their 2.3 equally mediocre kids put them in a nursing home as they slowly slip in dementia and then become worm food, to be remembered for maybe the next five years of their grandchildren's lives and then forgotten forever.

Poor fools.