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.