There has to be a catch after twenty-two, am I right?

It's 5:35 in the morning and I am sitting here with one of those rice filled microwavable heating pads around my neck.
Which is better than I was doing a half hour ago when I was sitting on my bed with my head in my hands ...
But I'm bitching.
But I don't care.
Cause like I said it's 5:35 in the morning.
And I got the right.
The fucking inalienable right.
To bitch.
To moan.
To piss, but only figuratively.
And the heat pad is getting heavy.
And so are my eyes.
And it hurts to be in pain.
And whatever happened to the Grand Ennui?
And Baby Jane?
And the Snowdens of yesteryear?
The Snowdens of yesteryear?
The Snowdens of yesteryear?
The Snowdens of yesteryear?