“Sir, This Is a Crisis” is what happens when you treat 911 like Yelp.
A frantic, sarcastic, groove-heavy meltdown about impossible calls, public tantrums, and the mental gymnastics of keeping it together on the job.

Lyrics:

“911, what is your emergency?”
…Sir, this is a crisis.
But I’m also on scene at five others.

⸻

You want help?
So do I.
You want someone calm?
Try Jesus.
You want someone trained?
We had a two-hour webinar
on resilience.
Last year.
I skipped it.

⸻

Sir, this is a crisis.
Not customer service.
Sir, this is a crisis.
Not Chick-fil-A.
Sir, this is a crisis.
And I’m four calls late.
Sir, this is a—
just hold, okay?

⸻

I’ve got a suicidal caller
on line two.
A dog bite on three.
A lost grandma on four.
And you on speaker
screaming about fireworks.

⸻

Sir, this is a crisis.
Not therapy.
Not daycare.
Not Google Maps.
Not magic.

⸻

You want help.
So do I.
But there’s a form for that.
And it’s offline.

⸻

Sir, this is a crisis.
And I’m bleeding through my vest.
Sir, this is a crisis.
And I smiled for your complaint.
Sir, this is a crisis.
And I answered.
Still.

Sir, This is a Crisis

A disco-spiritual meltdown for the influencer age. I bought a ring light and accidentally achieved enlightenment, or maybe just better lighting. This is the soundtrack to confession in 1080p, guided meditation through sarcasm, and discovering your higher self in front of a cracked phone screen.

I Bought a Ring Light and Found God

This isn’t sadness. It’s presentation.

Nobody Cries in Chrome is what it sounds like to fall apart in HD.

Faceless in a tux. Too high-res to feel too low.

Nobody Cries in Chrome

Too real for the room.

Screamed too loud. Said too much. Got told to calm down.

Kicked Out of Therapy is glitchcore for the emotionally radioactive.

Lyrics:

She asked me how I’m feeling
And I said
“Like a cursed NPC in a trauma simulator”
She didn’t write that down.
She just blinked.
Twice.

I walked into therapy
Like a content warning with legs
Told her I have abandonment issues
So bad
I ghost myself

Said my love language is red flags
And weaponized Spotify playlists
She asked me to scale my anxiety
From 1 to 10
I said
“Spotify Wrapped”

I GOT KICKED OUT OF THERAPY
FOR BEING TOO REAL
I TURNED MY BREAKDOWN
INTO A HIGHLIGHT REEL
I DIDN’T OPEN UP
I KICKED THE DOOR OFF
I WROTE A JOKE
AND CALLED IT A CRY FOR HELP

I trauma-dump like it’s performance art
And then tiptoe out of the chat
I overshare in lowercase
So it feels soft
But it’s not

She said “You deflect with humor”
I said “You’re not wrong”
Then made a meme about her
Before the session ended

I know I’m a lot
I’m just not sure
What kind of “lot”
I am

I GOT KICKED OUT OF THERAPY
FOR BEING TOO REAL
I MADE THE CLINICIAN NERVOUS
WITH HOW WELL I COULD HEAL
I TURNED THE COUCH
INTO A STAGE
AND THE SILENCE
INTO A MONOLOGUE

This isn’t deflection
This is art
This isn’t pain
It’s an audition
For a version of me
That doesn’t
Need
This

If you’re listening
I’m sorry
But also
You started it

Kicked Out of Therapy

She said “let’s heal.”
I said “let’s document the fallout.”

A glitch-drenched scream anthem for the emotionally exhausted.
Low battery. High expectations. No forgiveness.

Lab 210 pivots to full malfunction with this breakup rage spiral, half revenge fantasy, half digital exorcism.

I Don't Want Closure, I Want Consequences

I wasn’t zoning out. I was leaving this timeline.

This is for the ones who disappear mid-sentence and come back with a different name.
A dissociative glitchcore anthem, part breakdown, part warning.

I Don't Disassociate, I Teleport

What if the song left too?

A raw, minimal vocals companion piece to I Don't Disassociate...
Glitched out. Minimal voice. Just the echo of where I was.

Where Did I Go

Space Track Records is the label name solely publishing music by the anonymous artist known only as Lab 210. 

• Lab 210:

https://open.spotify.com/artist/561CpDRVJK6XbasdScUm1W?si=W-l9sdUyRs-0AwBt6iBy6A

https://music.apple.com/us/artist/lab-210/618432138

This track is not available anymore.

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