Two steps outside and I know I've already ruined my chances.
Thanks for telling me I'm exactly what you're looking for, but that you're not exactly looking.
Oxymorons were never really my thing.
So okay, I'm not a philosopher. I'm not ready to be enlightened.
I'm not ready for applause or sweet perfume.
Those things are for grown ups. And I still write letters to Santa.
Not because I believe in him, but because I believe in routine.
I've got three hundred problems, and you're every single one of them.
Don't forget me, please.
I wish I was actually saying something that was worth while.
But this feels like violins. Not even an hourglass could take this away from me.
I'm losing my mind.
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