Sleeve notes
Okay so nobody reads these, which is exactly why I'm putting it here.
Six songs. Twelve minutes. I know. Somebody at the label asked if we could "get it to album length" and I said no, because I've listened to a lot of albums that were nine songs long because of a number in a spreadsheet, and you can hear the four songs that exist for the spreadsheet. You can always hear them. They're the ones you skip and then feel vaguely guilty about.
Track one is forty seconds. It's supposed to be forty seconds. It's a cold open. If you're about to email somebody about that, please instead go outside.
Everything on here is true, or was true for about a week, which for a pop record is the same thing. The dating stuff is real. The bad comment I keep going back to in "Off-Brand" is real, and no, I'm not going to say which one, and yes, I've read it more times than the person who wrote it has. The bit in "Algorithm Baby" where the vocal stutters and glitches — that's on purpose, we argued about it at 3 a.m., I won, and I've changed my mind about it roughly once a month since. It's staying.
I say the label's name out loud on this record more than once and they let me, which is either brave of them or a sign that nobody read the lyric sheet all the way through. I don't hate them. The deal is the deal. I'd rather be loud about the cage than pretend I don't notice it, and I'd rather you hear that from me than find out from a contract someone leaks in four years.
I also want it on record that I wrote all of this, because someone always assumes I didn't.
Everything's on a timer. The songs, the summer, me. That's not a metaphor, that's just being a pop artist in 2026, and I'd rather say it out loud and dance to it.
Drink it while it's cold.
— FIZZY, Hongdae, still calling the apartment temporary