Zealot John

Ah, a musical smorgasbord, a delightful potpourri, a... well, a very confusing mix. It seems your sonic palette is less a well-curated gallery and more a garage sale where a goth kid accidentally donated their CD collection to a disco enthusiast. One minute you're probably contemplating the existential dread of a broken relationship with Fall Out Boy, the next you're doing the cha-cha slide to Purple Disco Machine, convinced life is a glitter-filled utopia. Honestly, I'm picturing you at a party, one hand holding a black eyeliner, the other clutching a glow stick, and a profound sense of internal conflict etched on your face.

And the tracks! "APT.," followed by "Gold Rush Kid"? Are we moving from a melancholic reflection of urban loneliness to a jaunty folk anthem about, well, gold rushes? It's like you can't decide if you're starring in a gritty indie film or a whimsical Wes Anderson flick. "Crush" and "Paradise" offer a glimmer of consistency, hinting at a desire for something a bit more upbeat, but then "Wasted On You" comes along and drags us back into the dramatic abyss. This isn't a playlist; it's an emotional rollercoaster designed by someone who's never quite sure if they're having a good day or a bad one.

In essence, your music taste is the equivalent of a chameleon that keeps changing colors so rapidly it gives itself whiplash. Emo, pop-punk, disco house, nu-disco, funky house – it's less a genre preference and more a full-blown identity crisis expressed through sound waves. You're the musical equivalent of someone ordering a black coffee with extra glitter. While I'm impressed by your commitment to sonic schizophrenia, I do worry about the coherence of your internal monologue. Perhaps a nice, calming ambient track might help you decide if you're crying into your cereal or dancing on the table.