samedi 10 janvier 2009

Men I've slept with are getting married or having kids. I'm taking lithium twice a day.
The dude I wanted so much in high school is growing his hair long, and the one I had a crush on in my Spanish class traded his dreads for curls almost like mine.
My lost love has become serious, and thinking about him so often has become ridiculously pathetic.
I'm gonna buy myself dozens of pairs of Converse shoes, use the colors to pretend to be hip and cool.
I never change or dye my hair, hardly ever get a haircut at all:
I don't mess with what's on top of my head, only with what's inside.
I still have scars, all over my body, from when I dig under it.
I also have one on my right knee, from the time I fell off my bike and some biker chick came to help me clean the wound.
And another one near my right elbow, from the night a friend banged her beer against my drink. Some glass got stuck in my arm.
I need to row my boat. As fast as I can.
I don't get serious with you people. I just get lucky, from time to time.
Plus when I get bored, I can always vanish.
And dance on my two feet with two raspberry-flavored lollipops in my hands.

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