I’m staring at the ceiling fan again

Counting down the seconds ’til the day begins

Mom says I should shave, get a real job, pay my rent

But I’ve been saving all my quarters for a dial tone that never sent

I saw you at the 7-Eleven last night

Buying cigarettes for a guy who looks just like Mr. Brady, but with worse hair, I swear

He didn’t even hold the door

And I forgot to brush my teeth, so I just stood there, stared at the floor

And it’s the same old story, the same dumb luck

My skateboard deck is cracked, my parents’ truck is stuck

And I’m still sleeping on a twin bed

With posters of bands that are probably dead

So say goodnight to the boy next door

He’s shipping off to basic training, maybe 2004

And I’ll write you letters that you’ll never read

About how San Diego’s just a permanent press of you and me