This morning we drove to work and argued. You were wearing your Starbucks shirt that you washed last night and I was in my oversized sunglasses and my green pants. The Prius go-karted through the trees and the mud puddles but you sat still and moped while I listened to my favorite music.
The mountains around us jammed out with me. They knew the words coming out of Stevie's mouth before I did, landslide was written about them.
I have decided that you have no desire to stand out or enjoy yourself. That you would rather go through life without ever being embarrassed, too afraid of rejection to put yourself out there, to roll the windows down and listen to your music as loud as you want. Someone might see you, maybe the mountains wouldn't approve?
well, WHO ******* CARES?
I think you think that the world would explode if you didn't go through your day exactly the same as you did yesterday. That if you didn't put lotion on in the morning your legs would spontaneously combust or maybe if you made toast in the toaster instead of on a pan the house would catch on fire.