I don't care.
I'll embrace all of my vices,
and we'll black it out,
or at least slow everything down.
And I'll fish for compliments
and I'll drink until I'm happy
and I'll wonder what you're doing but I won't call.
Our paths split.
It's morning but I still feel it
and we skate around.
Why, our intemperance feels so profound.
And I let you in real slow
and I regret it immediately
and I run away so fast, you fall too deep too easily.
I don't care
if I'm too young to be unhappy
or I recklessly impair
this newfangled proclivity.
And I won't answer my phone
and I'll never leave my bedroom
and I'll avoid you like the plague because I can't give you what you want.
I won't give you what you want.