My Cardboard Balcony

Poor Communication by Belinda Roddie Wait, wait, wait. No, no, no. Don't leave me hanging by the telephone pole. You're spitting out static and I just don't know what to make of you yet, so please don't go.

Everything was meant to be crystal clear. Everything was meant to make sense. If that were the case, how the fuck did I end up in a literal ditch on the side of the road? I don't remember the faces of the people who hit me with their fists, who kicked me with their feet. I don't remember where they dumped me at all. I think that my legs are both broken, and of course, it has to rain so I get drenched to the bone. So fucking cliché. Where's that Good Samaritan when I need 'em?