Being a human being and simultaneously being an honest record reviewer is a tough gig. Words have consequences when backed by real life, right? I tell people I know, “Please don’t give me your record if you don’t want my honest opinion.” Because if I lie, I’m lying to myself. I’m lying to them. Thirdly, I’m lying to you, who’s reading this review. That sucks. The other side of the see-saw is the word “criticism.” It’s not code for being an unholy asshole and hiding behind the veil of “no consequence will happen if I tear this record a new one.” Couple that with the fact that I truly don’t want to see my friends fail at life, and perhaps you can appreciate a little bit of the big ball of kitty cat yarn this becomes. It’s far from abstract. So, yeah, Matt’s my friend. We laugh our asses off and do stupid shit together. I’d heard versions of these songs on a longer demo CD. Big ups go to Andrew Schubert of Ghostbot for not only selecting the best, least future-embarrassing songs (like the weed one), but capturing the light/serious, poetic/unpretentious, thinking-hard/not-thinking-at-all-are-you-a-fucking-keener? duality of these three songs and Matt’s personality. For those of you who want all grindcore all the time, you’ll be fuckin’ disappointed. Patch soiled. If you want unembarrassing catchy songs that are punk-saturated in the cloth and fronted by an acoustic guitar—bronze, silver, and gold versions of this record are waiting for you. There’s absolutely no way I would have paid for the box set just to make Matt happy. Fuck that. I’ve got important Chinese food to eat. Insert compelling ad copy here.