(no subject)
I don't feel funny. I don't feel creative. I don't feel "writing room, hanging out, smoking pot and throwing genius ideas off the wall, shooting them down and gluing them together with honey and peanut butter." Don't feel like cigarettes and cloves. Dont' feel whiskey and conversation.
I'm last-track-on-the-album ready to check out.
I'm not even trying. And yeah, homeslice, I know we're all caught in the same crab trap, and fuck you for trying to drown with me.
Only one:
I can't tell if that facial expression is the one I should be jealous of. I suppose I should ignore you? We should wave and I should let you go your way. I like you, yeah? Is that clear enough? I'm chatting up your ex-boyfriend, you've got my current one in your arm and under the doorframe. Hasn't even turned around. Hasn't texted me. Hasn't said a damn thing; too pumped up with the hazy hope of green smoke encircling his brain, feet, legs, lips, hands, fingertipssssssss......
"Fuck yes, Battlestar Galactica!"
"Fuck yeah, cheap scotch!"
"Fuck yes I love your dog. Damn straight, Brutus. Fucking-A, CINCO DE MAYO!"
Here's where I am: this is where I think I ought to be.
I'm last-track-on-the-album ready to check out.
I'm not even trying. And yeah, homeslice, I know we're all caught in the same crab trap, and fuck you for trying to drown with me.
Only one:
I can't tell if that facial expression is the one I should be jealous of. I suppose I should ignore you? We should wave and I should let you go your way. I like you, yeah? Is that clear enough? I'm chatting up your ex-boyfriend, you've got my current one in your arm and under the doorframe. Hasn't even turned around. Hasn't texted me. Hasn't said a damn thing; too pumped up with the hazy hope of green smoke encircling his brain, feet, legs, lips, hands, fingertipssssssss......
"Fuck yes, Battlestar Galactica!"
"Fuck yeah, cheap scotch!"
"Fuck yes I love your dog. Damn straight, Brutus. Fucking-A, CINCO DE MAYO!"
Here's where I am: this is where I think I ought to be.