I love you and I kinda hate you because you and I just don't work out perfect.
In five years I'll have either had my degree from an arts school
or progressed somewhat with my music track.
I'll have bid goodbye to all the boys I loved
and try to hide any feminine tendencies.
I'll have to man up and woman up my life like a lasso in a rodeo,
catching all the falling pieces of me.
Running from all these guys that are out to eat me when they see my guitar.
Whispering with these girls that talk dreamily like they're under a spell.
Seeing how everyone's motives are now see-through.
I'll fight with the manager and stick a finger to the critics
because I was born to stand out; from my pale skin to my dark hair
to all these ethnicities.
My purpose, I might know someday.
But college, and career, you go hand-in-hand, and when I complete and jumpstart
all these pebbles on my road to the gingerbread house
I'll build an orphanage, a library, an art museum,
And maybe one day all the things I craved when I was younger
will then fall into my lap.
