Oh, how I hate it here.
You know what I am?
I'm one of those walking Psych 1 textbooks
With a hundred thousand complexes
And none of them real.
My mother, it's my mother's fault,
And it is,
But I shouldn't say so.
Because you know what that makes me?
That makes me crazy.
Mother, mother, mother,
I'll cry,
And I'll live by myself
In some apartment run by an old lady
Who reminds me of my mother,
So I can blame her for everything.
Is it her fault?
I don't know. Maybe.

I have to fight the urge to give in to this.
Anyone can break and blame it on his mother,
But once again, that makes you crazy.
I don't want to be crazy.
I should be, though.
Maybe that's why I obsess over it so much,
Because I really am crazy.

When you grow up crazy
And you fight it all your life,
Are you ever going to win?
Can you ever really win?
Or will she (not your mother) turn away,
If she knew?
Would you lose her?
I don't know. Maybe.