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Someday, we’ll be outta here, baby
And we won’t have to shape ourselves around others any longer, like a pair of carnival contortionists;
We’ll be ourselves, darling, if we can still dig it out from those decades of deposits of artificial mud.
One day I’ll take you to the stars.
We’ll have to run, not fly, but I heard the trail is more scenic than the highway anyhow.
I’ll be a writer and you can be a vlogger
And we’ll live in white-washed maisonettes with friends who respect us for who we are, not the painted china dolls we claim to be.
And you know, baby, when we turn thirty, we’ll be living half a hundred charities for children and never one midlife crisis because we’ve never settled for anything less than awesome.
Because someday we’ll be outta here, baby.
And I’ll say to you, “Please, baby, come to our flat this evening. It’s Anna’s 20th birthday party. Yes, we’re having a pillow fight; Yes, yes same place- between Jonesboro and Flint Street, What’s that you say?- no, there won’t be any corners in this house, don’t you worry, no corners to gossip behind cupped hands- it’ll be a corner-less island, yes- an island of misfit toys(1).”
Because that’s what we are--misfit toys and someday, we’ll find people who collect us to play, not fix.
And someday, the judge’ll say, “Innocent” for the last time.
And the trials of perpetual judging from our high school days will be over-
And we’ll run into those ass-hat jocks and prom queen bitches (2)at la place des grands hommes
And we’ll hug and say, “I’m a writer and he’s a vlogger,” and they’ll reply, “What?”
But it’ll be O.K. because somewhere else we’ve got half a hundred million misfit toys admiring us.
We’ll be outta here, baby,
Because Vincent once told us to not save anything for the swim back.
We’ll send money to Mom and Dad and all of them every week and we’ll see them on their birthdays but that’s it.
And you and I, we’ll go somewhere that they’ve never been before
And we’ll be reminded of the good ol’ times at Thanksgiving dinners--
Those disbelieving faces, underestimating remarks, and racist jokes that are near and dear to us.
A few more years, baby, and we’ll be outta here.
(1) from Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky
(2) From I'm the One That's Cool by The Guild