Lately I’ve been drinking from this jar because I don’t care to find a glass.
You can call me depressed. Call me self-obsessed. It’s last call and I’m fading fast.
This whiskey is my therapy. Especially after what you’ve done to me.
I’d feel so bad about it all if it weren’t for all the alcohol.
Lately I’ve been sleeping on the floor, because I’ve got no energy to care anymore.
You can call me a chump. Go ahead and call me a drunk.
If you’re going to call me names, well, there’s the door.
They say it’s detrimental, but I find it sentimental, to drink this way and clear my head.
Just like the way you cleared my bed.
I’ll wash your memory away before I dry out again someday.
Meanwhile, let’s blame these tears on whiskey and rain.