You called me on the wrong line, and that’s always a bad sign. You try to talk through your tears. I don’t even hear you. I’m just hanging up and grabbing my keys. Check the call display to see where you’ll be. I jump on my moped remembering what you’d said. The promises you never kept; the meetings that you slept through. And here we are again: I help you to your feet, and I suppress the urge to walk away every time you speak, because you’re so lame when you’re drunk, and you’re so drunk everyday, and the more that you drink, the more you whither away. And you used to be cool, you used to be so alive. Now, you’re relentlessly dull and you take up all of my time. Well, after I toss you head-first through your door, I officially retire from caring anymore. I’m calling up a taxicab because I can’t fit you on the back of my tiny little motorbike. Not a single thing with you goes right, and as much as I like playing hostage to your faults, next time, please, find someone else to call. Chorus.