ieatpants is not a musician

i work in an office and i come home each night to a tiny nyc apartment. the walls are closing in. this is the only theme of the music–there are songs: love songs, songs about celebrities, long drawn out poop jokes, instrumentals inspired by films.

but always, in the background, hidden under the half-size fridge–or between the hotplate and the ikea wall storage–is fear.


a dark cloud hovering over my head.

it all bleeds into my microphone.

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