Conjurer

The crumbs on my plate become bigger than me and I'll find a way to justify those donuts even if I walk to the store that's twice as far away. She thinks I don't have goals, and she emphasizes the word like it's something that ninety-nine out of every one hundred stupid people don't have. But maybe she's got a point. "Socks? You don't have socks?" Strikes a different chord than, "You don't have a solid gold pontoon?"

Crumbled up napkin, spots of Frank's, I'm trying to add the flavor. I read an article once about how it's chemical, you get hungry when you've been tying them on and on, but of course I can't remember any of the science. In one ear and out the other. So excited to learn so many things but really how many things do I know? Why bother knowing anything that's at your fingertips? And yeah I'm talking about your girl, too. I'm a regular conjurer.

Don't tell me what I know and don't know. Don't try to make me feel better. Don't butter me up with crass formalities and inside jokes, I don't have time for them. I would like, for once, someone to look me in the eye and tell me I'm a bad guy. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so crazy.