The nerve of those Who's
Inviting me done there, on such short notice
Even if I wanted to go, my schedule wouldn't allow it
One o'clock, wallow in self-pity
Four-thirty, stare into the abyss
Five o'clock, solve world hunger
Tell no one
Five-thirty, Jazzercise
Six-thirty, dinner with me
I can't cancel that again
Seven o'clock, wrestle with my self-loathing
I'm booked
Well, if I bump the loathing to nine
I could still be done in time to lay in bed
And stare at the ceiling and slip slowly into madness
But what would I wear?
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