When I want to text you No. 3, “How bout them Mets?” Where are you? I can’t text you. And I only want to for selfish reasons.
And you, Guy, Number 1, you know I’ve only thought of you once the last two days? Respectively. But still, it’s an improvement. I can’t search for your truck out here. There’s no reason for you to be in Kentucky. But the sirens, the trucks, they pass, and I think of you. I hate you but want you.
I want you to know I’m happy and moving on and more successful now than ever. Baby, I’m sorry, I’m not sorry. Really, I’m not.