You couldn't figure out how to say it;
it would never come out naturally.
You knew you'd die eventually,
but your friends didn't seem to act like it.
So you went to work.
And it would bug you, from time to time..
Crawling out of your own skin, in the middle of the night.
Something other than being everyone else;
still incredibly confused as to why anyone would try.
Spinning slightly, between hyperbole north, and hyperbole south,
spitting things out:
One was the pharmacy
you promised the daughter of a daughter you could fashion a briefcase out of plastic bags
if she promised to help you;
then you explained,
this was pretty much it as far as you were concerned.
Not a whole lot more to look forward to, but at least you two could look professional in each other's ending eyes.
Work is incredibly important to me.
It's going to change me significantly.
For the better:
teach me to grow.
selling bullshit to bullshit people
is a good thing; you'll figure it out.
And you'll never know any better.
Know anything about them or them about you.
Because you are entirely full of shit, constantly.
You are entirely full of shit constantly.
You are entirely full of shit, constantly.