Nice try shithead.

Where is the career you paid for? Who ties your tie? We'll park your Benz, while you visit our town. We'll serve your drinks you'll buy a tee shirt with the name of my isthmus and pay ninety bucks for the image of certain Labrador Retriever whose pate reflects the absence of any color what so ever.

I am not angry at my lot in my life. I have made the cliche that I will lay in. All attempts to re-acclimate my self to social interaction fail like foam insulation on the space shuttle.

Who can I write for? I can only hope for her. Your IPOD breaks and your gut gets fatter. Belabored key strokes like a brain bleed. Outside tables in the rain, getting soaked with smiles. Shes married now and high school still feels like yesterday.

Your first album is considered a plastic classic, and you still try to bump a four track dub tape on your first date. Living in '96 dreaming of '01 and wasting 08.

Rotten luck is someone elses when the precipice doesn't scare you. Revel in the inevitable come down, benzos are a fluffy blanket. Ensconced in the throes of a delirium some enjoy. Being the guy that works better with the sharp clarity of a hangover half baked out in the sun.

You've read this a million times, like you hit the snooze every 9 minutes every few months it seems that keyboard throws up.

Fuck.