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Today when I woke up I actually fell out of bed and hit my head.
It felt like dying.
Kinda wish that I was dead.

I need a pretty girl with curly hair
whose hobbies include
putting up with me.

I don't know who I am. (!!!)
I hate writing my own name.
Putting thoughts into action was never really my thing.

It's apathetic,
no maybe it's indifference.
Pills are the culprit.

And I've spoken all my life to shoot for the stars
and do whatever it is that makes you feel happy.
But now I'll settle for $7.25,
take smoke breaks, waste Obama's time.
Slowly start to bend,
I might break.

I don't need people reminding me that things didn't go as planned.
I'm really fine.
I know when summer comes I'll be singing every night,
so if I seem distant
or kind of like a prick
well that's because I am.

I'm almost always alone and it's really, really cold.
All my life decisions are under my volition;
I want someone who craves juxtaposition
or bear hugs.
Now I'm open for love.
I have vices I gotta get rid of.

I'd put 20 bucks you're out drinking with your friends
(who you despise),
or taking 100 photos to find the right light
(for instagram).
But if I had the money,
well, I already spent it.
You and I both know that,
and I hate how much you know about me.

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