Sex and Cigarettes
Thank You
This hideous collision of reason and feelings was over before it ever started. It's as if I was the lucky son of a bitch, the drunk behind the steering wheel who inflicted the death of all his passengers, yet managed to walk away without a scratch. And such is this life of mine, which I've so deliberately demolished. The most beautiful car wreck.
Do you ever read your girlfriend's Cosmo while she's at work trying to bring home the bacon? And do you still not understand how to hold a woman even after studying each and every line? Is the story of my life whose pages you're browsing through with those curious testosterone eyes just petty toilet reading material to get you through your daily crap? I won't lie, you are my greatest inspiration, however, you don't get to have my words as easy as the rest of me.
If men ever bothered to ask for my name, what are the chances they would remember it upon sobering? Or would they just keep it crumpled in their back pockets like the fucking singles they pay me in? Or the condom they misplaced there in junior high?
I make them hotter than Las Vegas weather when I spread my legs, and all I get is green paper tossed at my feet, the same feet they've worshiped the ground under just moments ago. The end.
I bask in not having to say a thing. A whore's "thank you" sounds as fake as an acceptance speech at award shows aired in 50 countries.
I want to thank my fans, for without them I wouldn't have a dick to land on. This one's for you.
Do you ever read your girlfriend's Cosmo while she's at work trying to bring home the bacon? And do you still not understand how to hold a woman even after studying each and every line? Is the story of my life whose pages you're browsing through with those curious testosterone eyes just petty toilet reading material to get you through your daily crap? I won't lie, you are my greatest inspiration, however, you don't get to have my words as easy as the rest of me.
If men ever bothered to ask for my name, what are the chances they would remember it upon sobering? Or would they just keep it crumpled in their back pockets like the fucking singles they pay me in? Or the condom they misplaced there in junior high?
I make them hotter than Las Vegas weather when I spread my legs, and all I get is green paper tossed at my feet, the same feet they've worshiped the ground under just moments ago. The end.
I bask in not having to say a thing. A whore's "thank you" sounds as fake as an acceptance speech at award shows aired in 50 countries.
I want to thank my fans, for without them I wouldn't have a dick to land on. This one's for you.