I’ll belt it out as I please, the shampoo bottle as my microphone and the steam of the hot water rising up like stage spotlights. The tiles feel good beneath my bare feet, and I’m singing like everyone’s watching. You can hear me through the wall, you say? It’s bothering you, you say? I don’t care, at least my whining is melodious. I do not sing for you, anyway. I do not sing for him. Nor for them. I sing because it feels good. So please take your complaints up with my manager. He goes by the name, “Garnier Fructis.”
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Sing, Sing, Sing
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You really are the master of the last line. There's so many great phrases popping up in this thing (like "drop the balls" and "he goes by the name garnier fructis")
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