I just fucked up my apartment...
It's 3:11 am.
KKK am, if you will.
And I'm fucking wasted. Oh, did I mention it's Christmas? Yeah, and fucking Groundhog Day is on, with Bill Murray and it freaks me out and I start fucking up my apartment.
There are tissues everywhere, because I have the sniffles.
I've broken a couple of the plates I had re-heated pizza on all over the fucking floor,
The dogs are barking to be let in this room,
Because they can't stay in any of the other fucking rooms in the house,
Because they know I have the sweetest beats comin' out my system,
And they know how to represent.
They start eating broken glass.
I totally messed up all of my papers looking for a notebook, that I'm most likely never going to find, and I don't know if you know me, but when I lose a notebook I go kind of fucking mental, regardless of whether or not Groundhog Day, with Bill Murray is on.
These chocolate covered pretzels?
Yep, dumping them on the floor.
Dumping them right on the fucking floor
And you know that if the broken glass from the plates isn't killing the fucking dogs the chocolate fucking is.
There's an old cup of coffee in here.
An old-ass cup of coffee that I was never drinking and it's somehow in my place.
There're like 400 empty beer cans in here, and there's one fucking old-ass cup of coffee.
The blanket I want to wrap myself in smells like feet,
Except for that I don't smell like feet,
So the only logical conclusion I can draw is that some mother-fucker
Some jack-ass ass-wipe cocksucking spoon-dicked backward-assed fuck has slept over at my place, used my blanket, and now my night's going to be shot all to hell because my fucking afghan smells like feet.
I can't even smoke in here.
And why the fuck isn't Bill Murray in movies anymore?
Is it because of his acne scars, America?
Fucking tell me.
Merry Christmas, you fuckers, I'm gonna watch Groundhog Day.
-Brian
KKK am, if you will.
And I'm fucking wasted. Oh, did I mention it's Christmas? Yeah, and fucking Groundhog Day is on, with Bill Murray and it freaks me out and I start fucking up my apartment.
There are tissues everywhere, because I have the sniffles.
I've broken a couple of the plates I had re-heated pizza on all over the fucking floor,
The dogs are barking to be let in this room,
Because they can't stay in any of the other fucking rooms in the house,
Because they know I have the sweetest beats comin' out my system,
And they know how to represent.
They start eating broken glass.
I totally messed up all of my papers looking for a notebook, that I'm most likely never going to find, and I don't know if you know me, but when I lose a notebook I go kind of fucking mental, regardless of whether or not Groundhog Day, with Bill Murray is on.
These chocolate covered pretzels?
Yep, dumping them on the floor.
Dumping them right on the fucking floor
And you know that if the broken glass from the plates isn't killing the fucking dogs the chocolate fucking is.
There's an old cup of coffee in here.
An old-ass cup of coffee that I was never drinking and it's somehow in my place.
There're like 400 empty beer cans in here, and there's one fucking old-ass cup of coffee.
The blanket I want to wrap myself in smells like feet,
Except for that I don't smell like feet,
So the only logical conclusion I can draw is that some mother-fucker
Some jack-ass ass-wipe cocksucking spoon-dicked backward-assed fuck has slept over at my place, used my blanket, and now my night's going to be shot all to hell because my fucking afghan smells like feet.
I can't even smoke in here.
And why the fuck isn't Bill Murray in movies anymore?
Is it because of his acne scars, America?
Fucking tell me.
Merry Christmas, you fuckers, I'm gonna watch Groundhog Day.
-Brian