A place for everything and everything in its place
Everywhere I go I am marginalized, Compartmentalized, Categorized
I am judged, I am surveyed, I am estimated, I am measured.
I am put into a neat little corner of your mind, with all the others who look like me, dress like me.

It does not matter that I am no one thing.
I look different each year.
Dress differently when it suits me.
Talk differently when I feel like it.
Walk differently when I am happy, or I am sad.
My place has already been allotted.
My tag fixed. My category decided.

Why must we see people like life is some giant Record Store?
Every one of us existing in our little category, our own genre, our own classification.
Each artists and album arranged alphabetically in the shelf where they belong.
So tell me, am I Hard Rock? Am I Punk? Am I World Music?

I know what you’re all thinking to yourselves… The burgeoning question that is eating away at your mind, your very soul…

Why did he say Record Store? Who listens to records anymore?


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