Oct. 08, 2003 @ 6:59 p.m.

All the glitz and camera tricks performed by a 1,000 stage hands and world renowned photographers couldn’t fool me, much less anyone else, into thinking that you are half as happy as that smile you put on your face, when you notice I have walked into the store. Too pretty to say hi, too high-class to act like you care. I’m wearing my pajamas in the corner store and you’re dazzled up like it’s Halloween and you’re going for the look of a '50s beauty queen, the kind you always wanted to be. The thought at your laughter being at my expense, as it crosses the street into my ears, drumming away the chorus to a happy, care free punk song. Then the lyrics kick in, the scratchy voice that’s tired from the new tour, tired like I am only because of where I have come. My thighs are as tough as a man who ran a thousand miles in the rain, uphill, across the boardwalk and down along the ocean with sand in clinging to my feet and stinging my ankles. The sun tries to set just as the refrain strikes back for the second time, the vocals have gone dead, the music has ceased and the only noise inside my head isn’t the crashing of waves or sea gulls, it is my thought’s silent voice. Smearing and grinning through pearly, white teeth it must be, as it’s bellowing tells me that I need to realize how I am the only one that got anything out of leaving you.