MyGen
Profile Generator
i hang with benefit cheats and no hopers, stoners, deadbeats who sleep on sofa's..
eeeeasyyyyy my name is conrad benedict rogan. self confessed messhead rat.
my life is good.
bio's are so fucking pointless.
if i actually care who you are you probably know me neway.
so unless ur PHIT, fuck off.I AM ONE THIRD OF:
we are the people our parents warned us about
basically we are nang and enjoy doin...
we use lots of words that 'urban yoots' use in a kinda pisstake way but now we actually say it so now people think we are wankers.
we aim to piss people off because most people actually are terribly shit.
we spit in emo kids faces.
my life consists of drinking far too much than is probably good for me (LoLzZz), drugs, listening to music, graffiti ish, laughing, concentrating on having the best time possible and knowing a large group of kainers, graffers, wiggaz, niggaz, gays, pissheads, trendy cunts, spice boys, trevs, messheads, fuckheads, nuttah's, headcases and other people i call my "mates". or "m8's" if u wanna get all myspace about it.
i am currently studying at BIMM which is full of fat sweaty metal kids. its "Gr8"
if you describe yourself as either:
.Ditzy
.Kerazy
.Mental
.Blonde
.a LiTtLe BiT rAnDom
..then piss off cos you're obviously a cunt
I occasionally put on gigs and club nights in Brighton. So if you are in a band and are interested in playing the brighton area drop me a comment or woteva and i'll see if we can come to an agreement.
why do bio's always make u sound like a twat?
now i have myspace am i math?
im really feeling those lighters.
I like to party fucking hard. I like my rock and roll the same. Don't give a fuck if I burn out. Don't give a fuck if I fade away. So back to the Motor-League with me before I'm forced to face the wrath of a well-heeled buying public who live vicariously through tortured-artist college-rock and floor-punching macho pabulum. Back to the Motor League I go. Once thought I drew a lucky hand. Turned out to be a live grenade of play-acting ";
anarchists" and Mommy's-little-skinheads, death-threats and sycophants and wieners drunk on straight-edge. Fuck off. Who cares? I'd rather hi-lite Trip-Tiks than listen to your bullshit. Fuck off. Who cares about your stupid scenes, your shitty zines, the straw-men you build up to burn. It never ceases to amaze me and as I'm suffering your perfection it reminds me of my own race to redress my own sad history of mouthed feet. Eaten hats. Teated bulls. Amish phone-books. Drunken brawls. But what have we here? 15 years later it still reeks of Swill and Chickenshit Conformists wi
th their fists in the air; like-father, like-son "rebels" bloated on korn, eminems and bizkits. Lord, hear our prayer: take back your Amy Grant mosh-crews and your fair-weather politics. Blow-dry my hair and stick me on a ten-speed. Back to the Motor League. I guess life is just a popularity contest. Success, the ability to perform within a framework of obedience. Just ask the candy-coated Joy-Cam rock-bands selling shoes for venture-capitalists, silencing competing messages, rounding off the jagged edges. Today is good day to die.
