You had to start this song over so you could have another beer. You promised yourself you would do this,
if you could have another beer.
No peeking.
It's convulsive. It's obscure.
You tried to be normal for awhile. You tried to blend in. fit in. go along with the system. But it's the pulsing bass in your head.
It doesn't count to four. It doesn't sound like toby keith.
You tried another state. They're different there. But worse.
You don't belong.
They're everywhere. You cannot escape them.
But you like them. They help you feel normal.
That beer doesn't taste as good as you thought it would.
Do they know? Can they tell?
Should I be collecting unemployment?
They told me to write a book. . . were they serious?
Oozing. Pouring. Sweat. Delicious. Mealy.
I miss my ergonomic keyboard. But I can only use that at work.
Aren't you always at work?
Don't throw up. Have another sip.
Oh how I crave a mutiny. Turns out she died instead.
It's obscure, but it means something anyway.
Nothing is more self indulgent than self indulgence.
The music is where you were. You can't say it. You can only play it.
But what it means to me is not what it means to you.
Or was it the math? You went there, too.
I cock my head to get the blood on the other side of my brain for awhile.
Oh alcohol, why can't you hire me full time?
i could've gone with you to see motorhead tonight.
Instead I was responsible.
I like this.
thanks.
Yes.
I like it.