Called you from a parking lot
To talk, about things
How are you? Is it too late?
I'm sorry

No, it's alright you'd say
As your alarm blinks one-thirty
I can't shake, the feeling
It's too much, yeah

Why did God hate us? (no, just me)Even if you were able to tell me
I don't, think I
Could handle it, no no, no

At the corner with the restaurant
I asked the same question again
Only to receive the same response
Too much, too late, too early

Why had God made us, just to laugh at usProblems just don't go away
No, I'm really not okay

I'm, just, fine (to let you know)
I, don't, need you (anymore)
Whatever I need to say to get over it?
Fine...you're a whore.

dial tone