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.