Not Meant for Me

Sprawl on your bed on a glistening Friday afternoon, it's sticky as a bad hair gel and your tongue is like a vertebra-less blob soaked in sweat on a sun bathed desert. You're half awake, and it's the worse half of yours. The good half is in a dream, ogling dames on a beach. You walk towards the curtains, to get a sight of the light and life that screams behind them. Life behind the curtains- walking, crawling; moronically shitty. You scratch your groin, you're not missing anything.