Scherbatsky

Did Bukowski ever drink enough?
Did Ayn Rand ever write enough?
Is my life too totally fucked?
I might go, and then I’m bummed out
Yeah, these are things I contemplate
As I sit alone in bed all day
Without a job to pay my loans and I think
That I know that I can’t help that
So much lost potential
I’m not leaving
I’m not ready
I can’t wait to be alone again
It’s ridiculous
But I still sit around and wonder
Is it better off
That me and all my friends
Stay inside and criticize
And drink enough to make up
For the new year
And every new year
I know I can’t help that
So much lost potential
I’m not leaving
I’m not ready
I can’t wait to be alone again