Have you ever noticed how you don't have anything? Not that girl you pretend to put in your glove compartment when she's in your gloves? Or a car? Or a job? Or real, feasible hope? Or **** all?
Put yourself in my position, I can't stand looking at you, your head caves in at the middle like dough with a thumb print, and you could fit two ******* or two *******' in that nose of yours.
All you think about is ***, companionship and pancakes.
A lack of hope, that's what's missing, I'm talking feasible hope, that's the one you really need.
If you could feel it like yesterday's bile still on your tongue, maybe it'd be easier for me to work with that head.
Or those gloves, if you actually put them on instead of pretending to put them on, instead of playing with that girl.
Tell her what's really going on, even though she'll laugh and laugh and laugh.
Tell her you're actually going insane every second.
A shish-KABOOM that slows down faster than accelerated Swiss particles speed up.
Tell her about your heart, that underneath the ink across your chest there's something else tattooed.
Or maybe she won't say anything and you'll be talking to fingers in a ***** glove.
A car would be good too, you could go places, use those free passes to Puregold your friend gave you.
Then again, you'd want to save every woman alive after going there; you'd think you could do it, some hero, some fake, some male with a complex.
And finally the job.
You have over $10,000 in outstanding loans, either you get a job or I do the right thing for the both of us.
So do you really want all this? Want to be young?
Want to know what it's like to have this ******* heart and keep it forever?
A heart that doesn't shut the **** up and goes off calling angry everybody's at four in the morning because it's drunk?
Want to know about fear? I'm not talking wise fear, I'm talking fear-of-death; tiger-in-a-bunny-suit fear.
Once you turn those lights off and can't handle yourself in the dark then you'll know my fear.