I ate cold chicken and stale chips,
listened to the band again,
wrote a poem about sad sex,
ate cake, texted an ex,
and watched the Food Network.
this is punk rock loneliness,
an empty house,
and diminished adrenalin,
ringing ears, debating
whether to masturbate,
but feeling too lazy.
tomorrow is Sunday,
so come watch Airheads with me,
and let's learn about license plates,
while eating the rest of the cake,
and filling voids,
fucking and forgetting.