Our love is a rotten banana with oozing pulp spilling all over the floor, ruined milk sitting in the fridge that you can't drink because it will fuck your insides up.
This shit will turn sooner than the expiration date says that it will turn.
I've written songs about you. I'm not writing anymore. If you want me to write songs about you, maybe you should try being less of a whore.
Track Name: Couch Potato
Sour cream and onion chips. Flipping through my Netflix. Wondering if Freaks and Geeks is on instant queue. I've been awake since one o'clock and I'm still in my slipper socks. Is this an indication of what my life has come to?
I'd go down to the record store but I would need a little more money in my bank account to afford gas. The car I drive is a piece of shit and I've still got to pay for it, so what have I got left to do but sit on my ass.
All my friends are at work and me, I'm in a Star Wars shirt. If I had an incentive then I'd get on my feet. I've got a job, the hours suck and I don't really give a fuck so I guess I'll go back to bed and get some more sleep.
I'm a couch potato but it's okay, though. What else am I gonna do.
Track Name: Attach - Reattach
You're not the brightest color in the crayon box, are you? You're not the ripest apple I can find. You're not the only person I can talk to for an hour without getting bored out of my mind.
You're not the reincarnate of some pioneering scientist. You're not exactly as sharp as a tack. You're not the only person who has dumped me for another, but you're the only one I've ever wanted back.
You're not exactly Bob Pollard when it comes to making music. I had to bug you to death just to get you to write me a song. Your taste in film is questionable. I mean, you don't even like Gondry. I'm not sure how we ever got along.
I can't explain my attachment, but I know you've got me feeling really down. I'm aiming for detachment, but I dunno if it'll stick around.
Track Name: Surgery
You ripped out my heart and you stomped all over it with your black leather boots. It doesn't seem to matter that you've got my entrails on your shoes. I know that you moved on and I'm not interfering so just cut me some slack. It's not like I said anything relating to me wanting you back. I just want you to know about my condition since you gutted me out, even though that's something that you don't give a shit about.
You're just cutting out my innards with Exacto knives and you never think much of it and you blow me off thinking I will never notice but I do and now I'm torn. And now I'm wiping up the blood and guts you left on the floor and I'm trying to get better but I never really do so I sit and curse your name and wish that you had not been born.
Take out your thread and suture up all the flesh that's making you gag, then finish off your handiwork with tubes and a colostomy bag. Prescribe me medication to deal with the surgery I got at your hand, as if all the pills and medicine will magically make me feel grand.