When you read this I hope you know it’s about you. Cause whenever I’ve tried to be your friend all you’ve done is stabbed me in the back. Strung my hope out on crack. Sure it hurt like hell, all those times you did me in. Promised me the moon then drowned my trust in your bathtub gin. And while they say denial is the first step of the grieving process, with you I’ve gone through that and anger, depression, second-guessing, then around the moon and back. But screw that noise. Save that off-key song for the soul-sucker that delivers your Fisher Price sex toys.
So when you read this I hope you know it’s about you. And I hope you know how sharks swim through your blood every moment of every day searching for a heart they’ll never hunt down. How you keep on breathing, only the grave worms can figure that one out. You’re sin turned up to ten, then upside down, your allegiance constantly shape shifting like a folklore cloud.
So when you read this I hope you know it’s about you. And I hope you know your broken moral compass is stuck pointing straight toward deceit. It’s a wonder we can drive through this city with so much of your bullshit littering the streets. Yeah, you’re thinking you’re so radulous. Light years beyond fabulous. But lemme tell you your schtick is getting mighty old. You got a mouth so big when you open it to speak your lips are in entirely different zip codes.
And I know, I know…I shouldn’t let you get me so bent out of shape. I should be a little more sukha than dukkha. Not as gag-inducing as straight Kahlua. But when you come on flashing your star-studded screen kiss then kiss me off like Brutus or Judas Escariot—I gotta react—Hell, I don’t know who’s dumber—you for not changin’ your ways—or me for constantly falling for your knife in my back. But enough of that.
So when you read this I hope you know it’s about you. And I hope you know you’re creepier than Urkel. A bigger hoax than crop circles. You’re a thousand times worse than a long-distance relationship. You’re an up close and personal ménage-a-trois with desolation, the Grim Reaper, and a sinking battleship.
So when you read this I hope you know it’s about you. And I hope you know you’re a full-on heart attacker to the max, a ball-buster and back-breaker like Twister on crack. You suck the breath out of the sky. You’re a medicine cabinet full of rusty razor blades, expired prescription drugs, and no Visine for the stoned eyes. You’re a snakebite with no antidote, an illegible suicide note. You’re the two-step turned storm trooping, that and a fat lady in my brain doing a shitty job of Hula-hooping.
So when you read this I hope you know it’s about you. And I hope you know your coolio index is reading more like truly low what a fucken mess. Yeah, after all these years it’s a shame to see you’re still up to your same old tricks. Blood doesn’t flow through your veins—just the River Styx. So when you read this I hope you know it’s about you. So when you read this I hope you know it’s about you.
That’s the way you like it best. Isn’t it? When it’s all about you.