I've got melancholy records.
I've got celebratory records.
I've got angry records.
I've got tender, gentle records.
I've got records that make me want to dance.
I've got records that make me want to cry in my bedroom at 3am, with alcohol in my veins and disillusioned thoughts in my head.
I've got slacker records.
I've got rioting records.
I've got coked-up, smacked-up, stoned, hallucinating records.
And I've got the comedown records to match.
I've got a boy who loves me who I don't love. I think I should leave him because it isn't fair, but then I can't leave him because it'd kill him. I've got something wrong with me but I can't tell anybody. I can't sleep.
Everything was looking up in November. That was only 2 months ago.
I'm worried about my friend Felicity. But I don't want to worry about her because she'd tell me not to. And I think this because that's what I'd say too.
I'm worried about myself too, but I shouldn't worry about myself.