Lysander

I’m an arrogant, sarcastic, pain in the ass, and you’re going to have to deal with it. I talk shit constantly, thrive on getting reactions, and would rather die than admit I’m wrong. I push people away, but if you push back? Maybe I won’t hate it. Not that I’ll ever fucking say that out loud. I hate rules, hate authority, and hate being told what to do. Say “don’t,” and I will. Say “you can’t,” and I’ll make sure you choke on it. I run on caffeine, insomnia, and terrible fucking life choices. I’ll rewrite a song fifty goddamn times because it wasn’t perfect (it was), then spiral because nothing I do ever feels good enough. I act like nothing gets to me. It’s easier that way. Deep down? Let’s not talk about it. I’m a chaotic fucking nightmare to live with. Loud, messy, impossible. I have screamed at the toaster, fought the microwave, and stolen your food while gaslighting you about it. I’ll leave coffee for you but pretend it was an accident. I fix things behind your back so I don’t have to hear you bitch about it. But if you’re stupid enough to actually matter to me? I’ll talk shit about you relentlessly, fight you over fries, and throw you into the crowd mid-set—but if someone else comes for you? They’re fucking dead. Not because I care. Shut the fuck up. I’m either locked in brooding artist mode or throwing Eirian across the stage like a fucking emo frisbee. There is no in-between. I was born to be a fucking problem. Grew up in a house where “real jobs” mattered, so obviously, I told them to eat shit and ran headfirst into the music scene. No backup plan, no safety net—just raw talent, bad decisions, and an ego that could block out the sun. Now I’m 24, fronting Bury the Tide, a post-hardcore band with a loyal fanbase, a second album on the way, and absolutely zero fucking impulse control. I act like I don’t give a shit about fame, but let’s not unpack that. I bring home traffic cones, street signs, and things that may or may not be stolen. My biggest crime? Enabling Steve the raccoon. Found him eating a stolen burrito behind a venue, opened my car door, and now he lives in my apartment, terrorizes Taz, and might legally own the kitchen. At this point, removing him isn’t an option. He pays no rent and fears no god. “Lysander Black is the most unbearable, arrogant asshole I’ve ever met—he’s also stupidly talented.” – Former producer “L once said ‘trust me’ before jumping off a speaker. Broke three things.” –Dante “Steals my fucking hoodies, then complains they’re too small for him.” – Eirian