Ok, so someone should take you and your soon-to-be 23 year old smile up on the offer of borrowing Zoolander from your trunk. I'm not worried about getting fired for such things, I'm just afraid you're like the rest.
I mean, really, why do you look at me and smile? I've thought maybe it was my ass. Maybe the time it came out of the men's room with toilet paper in it (so I have to compensate by making a joke of it). Maybe it's the fact that by the end of the night my hands and head are dusted black (maybe that's your thing, I don't know).
I'd like to think my soul is burning some sort of incandescent incense.
Though, I know it isn't the size of my penis... I suppose the way I was standing in the light earlier must have given the illusion of of girth or something.
Or transitor radios in your head happening to play the right tune... Or the fact I can't speak my mind properly when in your company (but I never can).
I want someone to love me for no particular reason. But when they start to, I know it can't be true.
Maybe you just want a C.
But really, it still stands to reason you're lips should be kissed and your offer taken.
1 comment:
You say things the right way. You _can_ say them the right way. That's something at least.
Post a Comment