Midnight Letters

Broken Paths

Lonely Roads

Empty Streets

Fading Shadows

Broken Vows

Last Breath

Falling Stars

Colton Stanley, 14, saw a mountain of dirty dishes as the ultimate enemy. The soapy water, the soggy food bits—it was a nightmare. He'd much rather be on his PlayStation, lost in a new game, or kicking a soccer ball around with his friends at the park. His mom, however, was unyielding. "Colton," she'd say, "these aren't going to wash themselves." He'd try everything to get out of it, from claiming he had too much homework to bargaining for an extra week of chores, but she always stood her ground. To him, the dishes were the one thing standing between him and absolute freedom, an endless pile of rebellion he just couldn't win.... and with that, 
KID A was born.

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"Kid A Hate Doing Dishes"
(from his diary entry dated, Aug. 14, 2025)


Yo… I had plans, man.
Controller in my hand, Wi-Fi on demand,
Button-mashin’ battles, Fortnite on the stand,
Maybe bike ride, maybe TV, maybe just nap,
But nah—Mom drops the bomb: “Get your hands in the tap.”
Man, I’d rather count ceiling cracks ‘til I die,
Than scrub somebody else’s spaghetti pie.
I just wanna lay in bed, let the day float by,
Instead I’m sink-deep in my own alibi.


Pick up a plate—great, now it’s slick like slime,
Looks like it’s been here since two thousand and nine,
Chunk of mystery meat—what even is that?
Feels like it bit back when I poked it with the spat.
Water scaldin’ hot, then it’s ice-cube cold,
Suds up my sleeves like they’re ten years old,
Forks with gunk wedged tight like ancient glue,
Spoon lookin’ like it survived a barbecue.
And don’t get me started on the glass with the ring,
Who drank milk, left it out—man, that’s a crime scene thing.


I don’t wanna do these dishes, no, no, no,
Every cup, every bowl, every fork—oh no,
Rather be anywhere else, but here I go,
Scrubbin’ like my life’s a low-budget show.
I don’t wanna do these dishes, no, no, no,
But I’m stuck in the soap, in the suds, in the flow,
Every plate’s a boss fight, I just can’t cope,
Yeah, I’m losin’ my mind—pass me the dish soap.


Nah, nah, nah—this is torture disguised as a chore,
Like a war on my hands, man, a germ-spore war,
Got sludge in the sponge, got slime in the sink,
Every time I touch somethin’ I stop, gag, think:
“Why me? Why here? Why this filth, right now?”
Whole kitchen smell like a dead cow’s pow-wow,
I’m scrappin’ at a skillet that could break my wrist,
Like I’m fightin’ Excalibur—if it smelled like fish.
Grease fight back, man, it laughs in my face,
Soap slip-slides like it’s tryin’ to escape,
My brain’s in a rage, my patience a ghost,
Every sud-bubble pop just makin’ me roast.
Drip-drip, on my socks, now the floor’s my foe,
I’m skatin’ in spaghetti juice—yo, this is low,
Knives in the water like sharks in a tank,
One wrong move, now my hand’s in the bank.
I’m elbow-deep in the muck, and I’m losin’ my grip,
Whole process slower than a Netflix clip,
I’m a prisoner here, I can’t break free,
This ain’t dishwashing—it’s dishwashing me.


I don’t wanna do these dishes, no, no, no,
Every cup, every bowl, every fork—oh no,
Just touching the yuck, now my fingers are stuck,
I’m scrubbing this crud and I’m runnin’ outta luck.
I don’t wanna do these dishes, no, no, no,
But I’m stuck in the soap, in the suds, in the flow,
Every plate’s a boss fight, I just can’t cope,
Yeah, I’m losin’ my mind—pass me the dish soap.


WHY IS THIS MY JOB?!
I didn’t make that stew!
I didn’t eat that pie!
I didn’t pour that goo!
I’m a prisoner of porcelain, chained to the sud,
Hands in the trenches, elbow-deep in crud!


Thirty minutes later, sink’s squeaky and bare,
I’m sweaty, I’m tired, and soap’s in my hair,
I grab my controller, I slump in my chair—
…and Mom says, “Good job, now take out the trash.”
(…man, I quit.)

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Why is this my job?

The Road Taken

SINCERE IMPOSTER writes, performs and/or produces a curious mixture of New Wave, Dance, EDM, Folk Rock, Metal, Art Pop, Electro, Dreamwave & Experimental World Pop. Collectively, it's a genre known as QUIRKPOP --- Music that makes you say, "What the hell is this?"

The band currently consists of two members, both living within the same body, sharing a similar existence. They identify as Danielle & Dave. They are both psychologically and musically confused. However, both are extremely and unapologetically sincere. 

Influences include Weird Al, Nathan Fielder, David Lynch, T-Pain and T-Swift. Their favorite inventions are the vacuum and the peach pitter. Their father is simply known as Vessel... who may be an entity or a god.



New tracks tagged #INDIE POP