I suggest you don't read this unless you have time.


I sit here. I type. I ponder. I heat up a corndog. I listen to Agents of Oblivion.
But what does it all mean?
Am I meant to sit here. And type. And ponder. And so forth?
If I step outside right now, would I stumble upon a clue,
Leading to the latest kidnapped child?
Or would I see the murky grayness, and decide
To stay inside
For fear of this earth so wild?

I sit here. I type. I ponder. I eat my corndog. I listen to Ben Harper.
But what does it all mean?
Am I meant to sit here. And type. And ponder. And so forth?
If I sit here and think about all the bad things, would I develope agoraphobia,
[It's just another day in the life of Apes with ego trips]
And only see the world through artificial materials?
Judge it by its tricks and flips
And its children educated by boxes of cereals

I sit here. I type. I ponder. I'm done with the corndog. I watch the Simpsons.
But what does it all mean?
Am I meant to sit here. And type. And ponder. And so forth?
If I analyze myself, would I like what I saw,
Or drive myself to hate me?
And then crawl
Back to myself, then flee?

I sit here. I type. I ponder. I've been done with the corndog. I listen to John Butler.
But what does it all mean?
Am I meant to sit here. And type. And ponder. And so forth?
To drill my lack of originality into your eyes,
Or have you like what you read?
Do you interpret this as a girl who whines
alot, or one with too much in her head?