Patience

So, logically, I've started trying to drown myself on the way to work. I've got one hand on the steering wheel and the other clamped to the MP3 player, thumbing through to the most morose of my most melancholy material in the hopes that I might make myself cry, goddammit, just cry, and then maybe I might start to feel a bit better. But I can't. This pathetic girl, who cries at QANTAS ads, for chrissakes, when nobody's looking, can't cry over you, didn't cry when you got out of the car, because she doesn't know yet if there's anything to cry over.

And that sign isn't helping. No, it's not enough that I'm listening to the same radio station that I know is tickling you awake as I cross the river, some fool had to whack in a great big aluminium reminder that I have a choice - I could go to work this morning OR I could drive 1687km straight ahead and into your driveway. I turn left, of course, and take the exit, but tonight I'll stand hypnotised in the bottle shop wondering which variety of the beer we drank together to take home this time, and leave with nothing.

All you have to do is will me towards you.