Just like I hate Fenders.
Just like I can't stand the snow.
Just like my hand-me-down truck that I miss so much,
even with no stereo.
And just like fucking with a condom on,
though I've got no fucking disease.
Like getting tested for a brand new girl
who just turns around and leaves.
Like full-time school, a part time job,
and a niece I never see.
Like headwinds. Girls with boyfriends.
No money for no TV.
Just like that headstone with my name
engraved from a generation passed.
Like being twenty-three on Thursday.
Like growing up too goddamn fast.
Like a cell phone full of numbers
but not one soul I want to call.
Just like half-read books read by well-read eyes
that pretend to have read them all.
Like following a dream
that cripples you with debt.
Like laughing at a joke
that hasn't caught up with you yet.
Because I once new why in those Kris Kross days.
Spin the bottle and she moves in mysterious ways.
Like a stupor.
A Winnie Cooper.
But now nothing makes sense to me.