I lied about my major to a stranger on the bus. 

I’m pretty sure I’m aging poorly and I surely peaked too early. 

I’m about to greet my bitter end, craving the estrogen and minimum comfort. But I can’t afford it. 

My head’s in Oregon, my feet in California. 

I prefer my chest pains over my daily headaches. 

I’ve outgrown most that I’ve known, and I’m scared to reminisce, so I believe in nothing, and never felt this uncertain of anything in my life. 

All panic aside, I actually kinda like it. 

My canvas is the Void. I paint meaning on the meaningless all damn day. 

But that gets lonesome, and therein lies your right to occupy my bedroom. I promise that I won’t make trouble I’ll just listen. Tell me about your family, tell me your role models, and tell me how your caught up working towards the wrong goals. 

And tell me do you notice this blistering bliss apparent in our thoughts? 

Maybe you don’t, but I do. 

And after it I’m a sucker feeling sorry for everyone. 

Cheer up Paradise. 

I won’t let it drain the passion from our lives. 

Quit your pity sighs. 

Oh I’ve got this funny feeling we’ll be fine.

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