I’m not any good with all these people
It’s automatic, I talk with myself
I stand in society with all these people
I’m designed to flee from humidity

When we go over to your mom’s house
I wanna turn around and just leave
I question my very personality
I don’t belong here any fucking way

Monsters were always inside of me

I think of all of the qualifications
Listed for a place in your family
I no longer posses the emotional drive
Required for a role in the gentry

I have very few in me anymore
Each fiber of my very being
Rails against my own hypocrisy
And with my thesis my reasons begin to bleed

I lust for the beatings that I once knew
I love you for what you put me through
I hate myself for what I always do
I hate you, run away, and be brand new

My head’s spinning, why do I have to pay this price
Darkness is beginning, I can’t find the fucking mice
My perversion, our wires have been naughty spliced
Your sickness is my fucking vice

Saturday I just wanted to mow the lawn
Playing chess with nothing but pawns
God told me I had this coming all along
So please tell me what I did wrong

I’m not any good with all these people
It’s automatic, I talk with myself
I stand in society with all these people
I’m designed to flee from humidity

Criticisms

There are no polite introductions here, no easing-in, just a track that throws you straight into its world: one that feels unstable and wildly unbridled, as if the walls themselves are breathing just a little too close to your face. Lyrically, the track is a study in internal exile, it’s narrator overwhelmed by social alienation and inner turmoil, spiraling through self-loathing, conflicted attachment, and a sense of being fundamentally unfit for belonging and trapped in destructive emotional patterns they feel powerless to escape.

It’s a dark descent into alt. rocks harder-edged output, complete with unhinged riffwork, unrelenting grooves, and a disengaged vocal presence that feels scarily detached from humanity. This is alternative rock stripped of restraint and good manners—feral, introspective, and deeply uncomfortable in the best way. It doesn’t ask to be liked. It insists on being felt, like a bruise you keep pressing just to remind yourself it’s still there.

The guitars are the first thing to truly crawl under your skin. They don’t riff so much as snarl. Thick, crunch-infused tones smear across the stereo field, alternating between tightly coiled chromatic figures and moments where everything seems to sag into de-tuned, almost narcotic drones. It’s disorienting in a deliberate way—the harmonic language refuses to resolve cleanly, instead circling itself like a thought you can’t shake at 3 a.m. That chromaticism isn’t just a stylistic choice; it feels psychological, like the sound of second-guessing rendered in distortion.

And then there’s the groove—unrelenting, almost confrontational in its persistence. The rhythm section locks into something primal and fittingly repetitive. It’s the kind of pulse that doesn’t guide you forward so much as trap you in place, forcing you to sit with every jagged edge the song throws your way. Even when the arrangement threatens to collapse under its own weight, the groove keeps hammering—mechanical, automatic, inescapable.

The vocals are perhaps where the track’s identity fully fractures. Delivered in a disengaged, off-kilter drawl, they sound less like performance and more like leakage—private thoughts spilling out unfiltered. Lines like “I’m not any good with all these people / It’s automatic, I talk with myself” don’t feel sung so much as confessed under duress. There’s a tension between detachment and volatility: one moment the voice drifts, almost numb, and the next it sharpens into something accusatory, even self-lacerating.

What’s striking is how perfectly the sound mirrors that psychological fragmentation. The unpredictable harmonic backbone, with its chromatic unease and droning collapse points, echoes the lyrical themes of identity disintegration and social misalignment. When the narrator spits “I don’t belong here any fucking way,” the music seems to agree, buckling and twisting instead of offering any sense of resolution.

The production—dirty, raw, and unvarnished—only intensifies this effect. Nothing is smoothed over. The mix feels humid, almost sticky, as if every frequency is slightly oversaturated and pressing in on you. But this isn’t a flaw; it’s a design choice that gives the track its teeth. A cleaner mix would neuter it. Here, the grime becomes part of the storytelling, amplifying the sense of unease and giving the entire piece a darker, more immediate edge.

—Andre Avanessian