Let's put our ear phones in our ears one last time as we traverse through snow-filled cities in search of something - something a little more. Let's make fun of everyone around us, only because they don't measure up to our standards. Who needs standards, though? We've dropped out of highschool to get jobs at McDonald's to pay for rent and booze and slip-on shoes that now have holes in them from too much walking.
Half the dresses in my closet make me look fat, but you would never admit that. You're too busy pretending to play guitar to care whether or not we have enough bread and butter and paper in our small, one bedroom apartment. Nobody needs those kinds of necessities anyways, you complain. I'm going to assume you haven't read the only remaining book we have - the dictionary my mother gave me when I was ten - otherwise you would've known that necessities are things we need, and I don't need you anymore.
We want to travel to France or Spain or South America; je m'appelle la fille, hola. But we don't have the time or the money or the strength to quit our jobs and move out of the small town that seems to have claimed our already half-lives. My French is good enough for the both of us, and I'm secretly learning Spanish and salsa from a boy down the street, and maybe I'm learning a bit more than that - maybe I'm learning that you're not worth the crappy job or the crappy apartment or the crappy lifestyle.
I suspect you've been making out with Miss Overnight Kitchen in the fridge during your six to two shifts, and if you are, I want you to know I don't care. I have secrets of my own, like the fact that boys will wait in line for half an hour just to order from my cash (and I give them free food based on how attractive they are).
Maybe I need to go to France on my own. Maybe I need to head to Venezuela with the boy down the street; stay up late dancing salsa with every boy or man in my vicinity. Maybe I need to leave you once and for all - leave you with the dresses that make me look fat, leave you with the small, one bedroom apartment, and the guitar, and the lifestyle I never wanted.
And, in a way, I'm already gone.
i have no idea where this came from. too many late shifts at mc d's and too many memories about cute highschool boys who promise you everything and leave you with nothing. and it's sooooo true; who wouldn't want to move to france? not paris, but maybe nice :)