Woke up on my birthday,
being called a stinky slut,
and I smiled, played my favorite song,
because you know I'll always try.
Sitting on pictuures,
waiting for the garbage truck,
and smelling the day
as the last time I'll ever turn 37.
My phone vibrated a bunch,
but I ignored most,
my brunch was just toast
and another thimble of whiskey.
It was a beautiful celebration
of unproductivity that didn't last,
because I wrote this stupid poem,
but at least I got to rock dope new kicks.