Your job sucks.
Your clothes and shoes are made by overexploited underpaid children in a sweatshop in China.
Your feelings were cast, directed and produced in a dingy studio in Bombay. Your first love whored herself out in this very place.
Your aspirations are second hand American. So is your idea of feeling good.
Your favourite film is ripped off from somewhere.
The guy who sang your favourite song was just pretending.
Your education was at the hands of cynical discontented failures.
Your Diet Coke is part poison.
Your god is dead.