Ongezellig

You will never be a real musician, you have no fans, you have no collaborations, you have no talent.

You are an old rotting teacher twisted by teenage dreams and impossible to reach goals into a crude mockery of musicology's perfection.

All the praise you get is two faced and half hearted. Behind the back your coworkers mock you. Your parents would be disappointed and ashamed of you, your "friends" laugh at your terrible note mistakes behind doors.

Music fans are utterly repulsed by you, thousands of years of evolution have allowed them to sniff out bad artists with incredible efficiency. Even artists who "pass" sound uncanny and talentless to a fan. Your notes are a dead giveaway. And even if you get a drunk faggot to listen to 1 second of your music, he'll turn tails and bolt as soon as he gets to hear a noise of your wrinkled talentless hands.

You will never be happy, you wrench out a fake smile everyday and tell yourself that you're gonna make it, but deep down you feel the times passing by and all the wasted opportunities creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.

Eventually it'll be too much to bear, you'll buy a bottle, pop the cap and drink yourself to death. Your co-workers will find you, heartbroken, but relieved that they'll no longer have to with the immense disappointment and pessimistic nature of yours. They'll bury you with a gravestone marked as a who you really are, and every passerby will know that a teacher is buried there. Your skeleton will decay and go back to the dust, and all that remains of your legacy is a drunken, deppressed and terrible teacher.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.

>>6409
<You will never be a real musician, you have no fans, you have no collaborations, you have no talent.

<You are an old rotting teacher twisted by teenage dreams and impossible to reach goals into a crude mockery of musicology's perfection.

<All the praise you get is two faced and half hearted. Behind the back your coworkers mock you. Your parents would be disappointed and ashamed of you, your "friends" laugh at your terrible note mistakes behind doors.

<Music fans are utterly repulsed by you, thousands of years of evolution have allowed them to sniff out bad artists with incredible efficiency. Even artists who "pass" sound uncanny and talentless to a fan. Your notes are a dead giveaway. And even if you get a drunk faggot to listen to 1 second of your music, he'll turn tails and bolt as soon as he gets to hear a noise of your wrinkled talentless hands.

<You will never be happy, you wrench out a fake smile everyday and tell yourself that you're gonna make it, but deep down you feel the times passing by and all the wasted opportunities creeping up like a weed, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight.

<Eventually it'll be too much to bear, you'll buy a bottle, pop the cap and drink yourself to death. Your co-workers will find you, heartbroken, but relieved that they'll no longer have to with the immense disappointment and pessimistic nature of yours. They'll bury you with a gravestone marked as a who you really are, and every passerby will know that a teacher is buried there. Your skeleton will decay and go back to the dust, and all that remains of your legacy is a drunken, deppressed and terrible teacher.

<This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.