Here I sit, so dorkishly inside this plastic lawn chair. Sandled feet clad to the balcony as I'm taking in this Jersey air, and I'm starting to think about a girl back home who's probably thinking about anything but me. I'm starting to think there's nothing left for us, I'm starting to think.

Time ticks away, can't you feel the presence of panic inside the oxygen that you're filling your lungs with as you take in breath for strength, and you ask in all your naivety even though you don't care for answers. And I just hope your heart bursts like a balloon because you know damn well what you do to me. Come closer love, can't we just escape this?

Mandy marches to her mailbox for a letter from her favorite douche bag. He's away again playing music for his quote-unquote cult of groupie sickos. And there his letter sits, with proper postage, she'll read it later when she gets to it and she'll show it to her mom, who's never liked him, who smiles where it says he may never come back.

Now she drives to work barely affected by his false hopes for reassurance. He's so far away and feels like a fraud every time he speaks nice things about her, and she hopes that she will see him again soon, so she can collect the things that he bought for her. By now he gets a sense that Mandy uses him, she feels like a princess and makes him hate home.