You took a little every day until I didn’t have shit.
Two years off and on and not even the chance to quit,
just a letter on a fridge
that I got from human resources.
I know that six weeks was kind of a bit much
and that nothing is forever, and that nothing should be. Someday it all
stops and I can’t sleep now because I’m not a real fucking adult
but I guess now I’ll have my life
from 7 to 6:45.
Marie! Marie! Marie! I’m sorry
I’ve been too busy
for the promise of an unfulfilling life.
The risks I took were mine to take.
We couldn’t communicate
but rote responses and shit eating grins.
And everything starts dwindling
when it’s all built on
power trips and pandering
power trips and pandering.
The letter arrived yesterday.
I didn’t have a drop to drink.
I had to play and drive four hours to Brooklyn
to my apartment of dirty shit and 1,000 lonely days ahead.
But I guess now I’ll have my life
with red and black out of my eyes.
Marie! Marie! Marie! I’m really stoked you set me free
from the promise of an unfulfilling life
where I can pay my bills and
pass out at eleven and not
wake up in the morning and start feeling bad.
Worst case of the Mondays that I’ve ever had
though I treat every weekday like a Saturday night
except for drinks I can’t afford.
A can of Shmidty’s, nothing more.
I need some more security
than that provided by choosing between
a job you hate, a job you hate
and a job that doesn’t pay.
I got too caught up with me
to behave responsibly.
Michael, Nathan and Christine, I’ve got no rent, Marie! Marie!
I was arguing with cops while I had a fake moustache on,
poorly handling emotions, swimming naked in the ocean,
breaking bottles all over your floor and leaving without our passports,
drinking gin and Zicam until 2 AM while playing rock band,
inviting myself into homes of strangers to drink all alone,
leaving sweat-soaked boxers on a bar ‘cause they said “put a t-shirt on,”
acting irresponsibly and trying to make a choice between
a job you hate and a job that doesn’t pay.
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