empty minds and shallow ideas


you're not my type
your forehead is squashed, first of all.
you smell kind of funny sometimes
and you're really quiet.
even so i'm not the only number in your phone book
in fact it's always weeks between calls.
that's okay. you're not my type.

we never have good conversations
ending in nervous laughter
and i think, oh god
there he goes again.
it's not like we go out alone though
so someone always saves the moment.
i'm not really embarassed by you
because what you do has nothing to do with me
because you're not my type.

you're kind of vain. your wallet is full
of receipts to expensive stores with shallow help
required to wear "image clothing"
(that means clothes from these certain three stores. tight jeans and shirts that ride up
tiny shirts worth three hours of work.)
i think guys like you shop there because those chicks give you boners
not that i care. you're not my type.

it's kind of weird though
when the lights are off and it's skin on skin
(we say we're sleeping but i'm awake and i know you are too)
i always forget you're not my type
and i think you probably forget
(at least for a while)
your other date in the morning.