I need to stop making so much sense.
That shit is exhausting.
I spend too many hours of the day trying to find the right crayon. Fuck that.
Show me a picture of life and a box of crayons where each one is labeled awesome and nothing else because you are and you know what?
So am I.
Maybe I'll do a strip tease in a church.
Maybe you'll be the one to save the Earth.
Maybe I'll finally find the right words.
Maybe you'll hop the counter at a CVS just to make the register girl hurry up.
I want to hurry up and stop so I can take a walk in the park with you until we do back flips over each other's bad days.
Then, I want to break into the zoo and chillax with the zebras.
Then, I want to use the word 'chillax' in a sentence and still be taken seriously.
I'm functionally meaningless if you're looking to Mapquest the mundane.
Introduce me to Mr. Beige and I'll jump kick him in the face.
Show me the man so stiff, he can't help but be the most upstanding citizen in the city and I'll watch my girlfriend go down on his wife.
Tonight, turn the television off, put on the most expensive thrift store threads you own, and go dancing in the rain and I mean, make it a DANCE!
Cut a rug on the sidewalk until you're exhausted.
Strut your stuff in the parking lot, kick-stepping under streetlights until you're spent.
Until there's nowhere left to go but the universe
And nothing left to wear but lightning.
Until you feel so fucking good about yourself, you'll never start another sentence wither the words 'I hate' again.
Every time someone speaks your name, it'll be nothing more than a metaphor for Heaven.
You are the greatest thing that ever happened to a box of crayons.
Eat them all and crap out a collage so breathtaking, your toilet will travel to museums all over the world.
Even when you think you're full of shit, that shit is sexy.
Wake up and dance.
Go to CVS and dance.
Take a shit and dance.
Save the world and dance.
Don't worry when other people stare.
They're just wondering if they'll ever have the guts to stop making so much sense.