Just like I hate Fenders.    Just like I can't stand the snow.    Just like my hand-me-down truck that I miss so much,    even with no stereo.       And just like fucking with a condom on,    though I've got no fucking disease.    Like getting tested for a brand new girl    who just turns around and leaves.       Like full-time school, a part time job,    and a niece I never see.    Like headwinds. Girls with boyfriends.    No money for no TV.       Just like that headstone with my name   engraved from a generation passed.    Like being twenty-three on Thursday.    Like growing up too goddamn fast.       Like a cell phone full of numbers    but not one soul I want to call.    Just like half-read books read by well-read eyes    that pretend to have read them all.       Like following a dream    that cripples you with debt.    Like laughing at a joke    that hasn't caught up with you yet.      Because I once new why in those Kris Kross days.    Spin the bottle and she moves in mysterious ways.    Like a stupor.    A Winnie Cooper.    But now nothing makes sense to me.