I've only got twenty-four bucks by side, so it looks like I'm drinking my dinner tonight. If I end up in Paramus, I've gone astray. And if the train hits the end of the line, I might stay. But when I get to the city 'cos I begged or borrowed, I don't want to be used tonight to be sent home tomorrow. 'Cos home, that's the fakest joint I've ever seen. Twice as bad as New York, at least here they know what I mean when I tell them I'm tired. They don't show me a bed. They pour me a drink and we get lighter heads. And we play with our coasters without saying a word, as we listen to the whistling of Andrew Bird. Then the conversation starts, man, and that's when it happens. We talk in paraphrases and poke holes in our napkins.
And our logic is sound.
Our views are unbent.
And our reasoning is so god damn magnificent.
Maybe I'll get to the city and visit with John, and he'll answer the door with a girl on each arm. He'll introduce me to Ruffin, a girl with fire-like hair, who will tell me:
1. her uncle's a millionaire. And that
2. her life is depressing, but also makes her laugh. That
3. she sleeps in the tub when she goes for a bath. That
4. she's never liked Tuesdays and never eats meat (though she's not opposed to the occasional treat.) And
5. she broke both her hands once, and both of her feet, when she tried to ride her scooter down Barrow Street.
6. She talks during movies, and
7. never says "like", but
8. she always rereads endings of the books she likes.
You know? I think I'm gonna stay.
('Cos we know that we learn to love the things we hate.)
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