She’s laughing at you in the background. They wouldn’t let you go to war, and your butt slid off the chair, and your pants ripped. That’s why she’s laughing.
So you go out and get a job. Maybe that will impress her and her father. But you get lost at “cosmos” while window washing in a uniform made of light blue house paint and pelt, tripping over the folds of the scrunchies of universal design.
Ain’t it hard, ain’t it hard when you want some answers but you get the squeegee. It’s difficult to duck when you’re five miles up in the sky, weighed down by an incredibly heavy knapsack that you’ve been carrying around the folds, trying to find the coastline, in a dizzy swing of things, and your boss won’t even tell you what’s in it.
How many more gags can you get out of this squeegee? Hopefully not too many more because you’re having trouble seeing past the sting of house paint blue.
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