ON A PATH

🎵 GRIM GIGGLES 🎵 🔥 OFFICIAL MERCH 🔥 https://grim-giggles-music.myspreadsh... 🔥 STREAM & FOLLOW 🔥 📀 Spotify https://open.spotify.com/artist/4FfqN... 🍎 Apple Music / grim-giggles 🛒 Amazon Music https://amazon.com/music/player/artis... 📻 Pandora https://pandora.com/artist/grim-giggl... 📻 iHeartRadio https://iheart.com/artist/grim-giggle... 🎥 TikTok / grimgiggles 📸 Instagram / grimgigglesmusic #GrimGiggles #GrimGigglesMusic #DeathToAllGenres #IndependentArtist #UndergroundMusic #OriginalMusic #NewMusic #Music #MusicVideo #supportindependentartists LYRICS They said, “You’re a fucking psychopath.” I said— “Good. At least I got directions.” They keep throwing labels like confetti at a funeral, “Crazy,” “unhinged,” “socially unusual.” Cute. You got a clipboard? Make it official. I got problems alphabetized and color-coded with initials. You say psycho like it’s supposed to ruin my day, I’m just glad somebody noticed I been finding my way. You’re standing in circles, bitching life ain’t fair, I’m halfway through the woods with a lawn chair. Pathological? Possibly. Methodical? Obviously. You panic when the room gets tense, I brought snacks and plausible deniability. Everybody’s got demons, mine just pay rent, Yours keep wrecking the house then asking where the money went. So before you point fingers and diagnose my grin, Maybe sort your own circus before inviting me in. You call it a warning sign. I call it a trail marker. You call me disturbed. I just call myself smarter. “You’re a fucking psychopath!” At least I’m on a path. You been lost for six years still blaming Google Maps. I got issues, I admit ’em, got a whole damn staff. But if crazy got a compass, then I’m staying on the path. Sort your life out, motherfucker, before you study mine. You’re throwing rocks from a glass house with the curtains open wide. “You’re a fucking psychopath!” Yeah? Cool. Do the math. At least I’m going somewhere. I’m on a path. Left foot, right foot, bad thought, nice shoes, whole lotta judgment from a motherfucker with no clues. You got seven red flags and a motivational quote, one unpaid bill from crying in the throat. But me? I’m the concern? I’m the headline? You got a situationship entering year nine. Your therapist got a therapist, your coping skills fled, but please— tell me more about what’s wrong in my head. I know where my screws are loose. I labeled the drawer. You keep losing yours then checking mine for more. That’s projection with accessories, hypocrisy in a hat. If accountability was cardio, you’d be dead on the mat. I don’t need your little armchair doctorate, TikTok-certified, bargain-bin psychologist. You heard three words and became Freud overnight, now you diagnosing strangers between scrolling fights. “Antisocial!” Wrong word. “Unstable!” Try harder. You’re emotionally Wi-Fi— one wall and you lose bars. So call me strange, call me cold, call me something with flair. Just don’t act like your dumpster fire is fresh mountain air. “You’re a fucking psychopath!” At least I’m on a path. You been lost for six years still blaming Google Maps. I got issues, I admit ’em, got a whole damn staff. But if crazy got a compass, then I’m staying on the path. Sort your life out, motherfucker, before you study mine. You’re throwing rocks from a glass house with the curtains open wide. “You’re a fucking psychopath!” Yeah? Cool. Do the math. At least I’m going somewhere. I’m on a path. Maybe I’m not built like you. Thank fuck for that. Maybe my brain takes the scenic route through places yours won’t map. But I know what I am. Know what I’m not. Know which doors stay closed and which bridges I’ve locked. That’s more self-awareness than most people ever get. So if the word is meant to scare me— you ain’t found the right one yet. I’m not asking for approval, not auditioning for “normal.” Normal wears a fake smile to somebody else’s funeral. Give me weird. Give me dark. Give me brutally self-aware. Give me one honest monster over ten saints full of air. If I’m walking through the madness, least I picked a fucking lane. You’re doing donuts in the parking lot and screaming at the rain. So keep the label. Frame it. Hang it. Put a spotlight on the plaque. “CERTIFIED PSYCHOPATH.” Nice. Does it come with a map? “You’re a fucking psychopath!” AT LEAST I’M ON A PATH! You can clutch your little pearls, I’m just trying not to laugh. I got issues, I got baggage, I got skeletons in stacks, but I know exactly where I’m going— Can you fucking say that? Sort your life out, motherfucker. Get your own shit on track. Then maybe you can judge me when you finally catch back. “You’re a fucking psychopath!” Yeah. I heard you the first time. At least I’m on a path. …You need directions?