What is fucked up, Alex?

Sometimes, I look in the mirror and wonder how the hell I got here. Or there, rather. I'll go the fridge and think I should've went to the dryer instead. You don't put clothes in a refrigerator. Rather, you don't if you want them dry.

But there's more to it than just my brain being broken. It's the questions we ask ourselves even when we've went where we meant to found exactly what we meant to find. Why do I only ask them when I've fucked something up?

To me the questions always sound like a song you love but the lyrics are intellegible so you don't know what they are but you sing along anyways, making sure the words you do know you sing loud and clear like it's some sort of revelation, not from God or even your mother, but from a common truth you find in the ashtray of an abandoned car. It's more like a strip of fortune cookie wisdom or the way a dog looks up to you with a knowing look, like he knows where you're bound and he'll see you when you get there.