Each critic is so convinced of their own importance, they wrote their own theme song. This is what happens when the dysfunctional voices in your head get a budget.
Listen on your favorite platform (coming soon):
The whole idea is ridiculous—that each critic is so desperate for the spotlight they penned their own anthem. The result is a chaotic, brutally honest collection of songs for your anxiety.
These tracks, written by the creator, are confessional with a beat. They're intentionally over-the-top, spanning satire, sorrow, and pure ego. By embracing the absurdity of it all, we get to touch the truth in a safer way.
The opening anthem that introduces the entire dysfunctional cast. A theatrical declaration that this isn't about fixing yourself—it's about meeting the chaos head-on.
A raw confession about living with the voices, choosing darkness as residence, and shining as the antagonist. Bob Ross references meet brutal honesty about what it means to create from chaos.
The weight of the world sits on his shoulders. About carrying burdens that aren't yours, romanticizing suffering as proof of significance, and the seductive lie that pain equals purpose. "Carry all this weight, your life's not that rough."
Warsaw's chaotic candy-wrapper origin story. "Call me an M&M again and then I'll lay you out." A cosmic rap about identity, insecurity, and why "Don't you ever forget I don't spit words, I spit Mars bars."
Divina's self-righteous gospel ballad. About impossible standards, moral superiority, and the shame of being human. She expected better from you.
A hypnotic, seductive descent into the void. Lucid's whisper promising rest, escape, and relief—while knowing exactly what it costs. The song that makes giving up sound beautiful.
Kenneth's upbeat, aggressively cheerful sales pitch for spiritual snake oil. A savage parody of wellness culture's false promises set to a disturbingly catchy tune.
The Parents' quiet, devastating gaslighting anthem. "Pretending that we didn't do everything you said we did / You don't remember clearly, you were just a little kid." Soft voices rewriting your memories and dismissing your pain.
The Boss's anxious, fast-talking disaster scenario playlist. Catastrophizing set to frantic beats. Every worst-case scenario, delivered with manic energy and corporate jargon.
The Nerd's mathematically precise anxiety spiral. "I like apple, I like cherry / I like pumpkin and blueberry / But three point one four is my primary." Analysis paralysis meets pi puns, with squares named Claire and imaginary life problems.
The disappointed teacher's cruel anthem. A brutal reminder of every wasted opportunity, every time you chose fun over responsibility. She delights in watching you fail, armed with report cards of your past mistakes.
Ashhole's signature roast. "Humans are little, humans freak out / Humans are fickle, humans chase clout." No punches pulled, no feelings spared. The truth about accountability delivered with gleeful precision and zero apologies.
Lucy's heartbreaking love letter. "Oh my human, you're a mess, but I adore you nonetheless." The gentle reminder that even in your mess, you are loved. Based on the creator's late dog who loved unconditionally through all the chaos, with pawprints left on your heart.
In the spirit of Inner Critics, I want to be completely transparent about how this music is built.
I'm an independent songwriter, and producing a full, studio-quality album from scratch is wildly expensive. To close that gap and create a professional-sounding album, I use AI tools as my production studio.
All final creative decisions are mine. Think of this current album as the ultimate "Proof-of-Concept". It's the necessary first step for an independent artist to build a market-validated product.
The goal has always been to use this fully-produced music to get funded, which would provide the resources to re-record a "human-only" version with a full team of human composers, musicians, and vocalists.
This AI-produced music is the bridge to making that final, human-made album a reality.