I go to the Scud and Nanny and smile, I chill at the rugby bar and laugh, I go to the nightclub and dance.
I call my friends and hang, I talk to chicks and flirt, I buy whisky bottles and drink. I watch Liverpool and cry, I read the papers and scream, I go to bed and weep.
I cut my hair and change, I do some work and struggle, but nothing seems to make any fecking sense anymore.
There’s nothing as frustrating as driving down Borrowdale Road for fifteen goddamn minutes knowing you’re going to a cold, empty bed.
This is bullshit.