Hi.

It's me, that suburb you grew up in. You know, the streets that raised you? The ones that you skinned your knee on the first time you rode a bike, that bore witness to your first kiss, that you nervously drove around on while getting your license? Not ringing any bells? Oh, you also built an entire career calling out how much I suck and how I'm "ruining your life."

^{This is being kind, this actually slaps way harder than anything you wrote.}

Listen here you little f**ker - I'm a g**damn TOWN. You think I asked for your stupid parents to settle down here so your unfaithful father could spread his seed all around the neighborhood like he's some kinda pervy Johnny Appleseed? 

Oh, that's right, you didn't know about that part, did you? Well the streets know, motherf**ker and lemme tell you: your dad f**ked a lot of mothers. Now you know why mommy drinks all the time. It has nothing to do with me (although I admit, I do have an unusually high concentration of liquor stores) and everything to do with *personal* CHOICES!

^{She's had a hard life}

Your life sucked as a teenager? Maybe spend less time dyeing your hair jet black and elaborately ripping all the clothes your poor mother bought as part of your "fashion statement." Weren't you the kid who never wanted to hang out with anyone and brought your guitar everywhere? Yeah, guess what dude, kids aren't really receptive to that bulls**t, and neither are most adults! Manic pixie energy does not translate outside of Hollywood. 

Maybe if you spent less time starting bands with your skater friends and actually went into the woods do drugs and get pregnant like the rest of your class you'd have a rosier outlook on your time here. Most of those kids still live here, by the way, so have you ever considered that all's well that ends well? Why would you though, when there's so much money to be made crapping all over me?

^{Sure, just blame me for *your* childhood failures}

And another thing: I'm not here to make sure YOU - sad little emo boy - have a thrilling childhood. No, I'm here to provide a safe, clean, quiet place for hardworking people like your saint of a mom and your poon-hound father to rest their weary heads when they aren't giving away their lives to some faceless company. Let me tell you: I'm GOOD at my job. My property values have steadily gone up, crime is barely a thing, and we even just got a Whole Foods so suck on it.

Now that you've made it big by s***ting all over us, maybe it's time you could write a song where you apologize. You wrote 3 albums of material about how much we ruined your life (at a point in time where your life had barely even begun, you sad little b**ch). You can write one song to set the record straight. Don't tell me "that doesn't really sell" - after what you've done to me, it's the least you can do. If you need extra motivation, just remember these streets have seen EVERYTHING you did on them.

Bleeker & 3rd, August 8th 2001. I remember, do you? 

Don't disappoint me.