I know it’s Thursday, shut up. Charles harrassed me for a lyric, so I let him pick one out. Normally, he can only muster enough concern about me to not stab me when I’m not looking, so this is a major breakthrough on the stabber-stabbee relations front. Last night I was in bed and some d-bag in the parking lot ran into a parked car, and then went in their garage and ignored it. I took down their license # and left it on the car that got hit. I crept around in the dark too because I’m a giant scared vagina.
Speaking of which, here’s Charles’ lyric!

The Engine Driver
The Decemberists

I’m an engine driver
On a long run, on a long run
Would I were beside her
She’s a long one, such a long one

And if you don’t love me let me go
And if you don’t love me let me go

I’m a county lineman
On the high line, on the high line
So will be my grandson
There are powerlines in our bloodlines

And if you don’t love me let me go
And if you don’t love me let me go

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones

I’m a money lender
I have fortunes upon fortunes
Take my hand for tender
I am tortured, ever tortured

And if you don’t love me let me go
And if you don’t love me let me go

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
I am a writer, I am all that you have hoped on

And I’ve written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones
My bones

(And if you don’t love me let me go)
And if you don’t love me let me go
(And if you don’t love me let me go)
And if you don’t love me let me go