So I made it out of the house today.
I'm currently sitting in a Target snack bar softly singing the below to myself.
I know, it doesn't paint a very pretty picture of my "existence."
Would it help if I said I was only at Target in the first place to buy cat food? Like, large amounts of cat food?
Yeah, I didn't think so.
You know you wanna listen to the karaoke version of this song and sing along too. I know if I keep doing it long enough myself, that man changing pants in the corner will eventually join in.
Do I smell a love connection?
That's definitely NOT a love connection I smell.
This Is What It Sounds Like When Spokesdogs Cry
Dig if you will, the picture
of a spinster engaged in a binge.
The grease of her pizza covers her.
Can't someone hear this?
It's like a lil' yip?
Dream if you can, a snack bar
tables of homeless, no room.
7 year olds flick things from their noses.
They see that creep,
What did he pick up and chew?
How can she just sit there eating,
alone in a home superstore?
Maybe she's just been abandoned.
Maybe she's just like a zombie, too old.
Maybe you're just like her pizza.
It never satisfies.
(It never satisfies.)
Why does she scream at the mailbox?
Shit there's no mailbox.
This is what it sounds like
when Spokesdogs cry.
*cue cliche, choreographed dance scene with a half-eaten pizza crust*
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.