It's the little things that get to you. Like the headaches, or the blood shooting out of your eyes at inopportune times. Yea, I'll just take a raincheck on that dessert, mom, but dinner was delicious.
It's the little things that get to you. Like when you want to quit shooting, snorting, huffing and dropping because you squirted blood all over your mother's delicious creme brulee and also the pain and the daytime hallucinations, but when some chick has her tits in your face and she's offering you a tab with her tongue while her friend whispers something about snorting it off her shaved pussy later, it's really hard, saying "no", you know? By the way, that might have been one of those daytime hallucinations I was telling you about. Somehow make driving my cab a little harder, too.
It's the little things that get to you, like when you're lying on a gorgeus sandy beach like straight out of a postcard and you close your eyes for a moment because if you get any more relaxed you just might dissolve and then you rip them open again because your fare is screaming at you in her stupid fucking language and you oh shit gotta dodge and you nearly plow into the fucker in the other lane and you manage to screech to a halt halfway up the curb and then the dumb foreign bitch staggers out yea sure lady ride's on me and then you need something for the shakes. Just a little something. Just a small one. Ain't no thing. Just. A. Little.
I can quit any time I want to.