Well, we were the History club rejects, focusing on the effects of being us instead of in a book.
Two college drop-outs, calling in shout-outs to our friends, hoping that it affected how we looked.
Our dads would sleep in, and our moms were crying until a quarter past noon -- and we knew if we didn't start trying, that would be us, soon.
We were the starving artists, painting fruit we couldn't afford. Hoping each brushstroke of an artichoke would be fruitful to our wallet, or at least strike a chord.
Two love-loss orphans, dreaming of morphing into something or someone else. But they told us to remove that fluff from our head and put it on the shelves.
We were the film club fanatics, studying the dynamics of how to be a pretend person. We wanted to be a Wes Anderson flick, but we were never any thing other than who we were and that's what made us sick.
And I swear I miss the desperation: I'm nostalgic for yesterday's conversations.
Special thanks to Noah Baumbach for the title and the line.