keeping up

There's something soothing about a day job that ruins your clothes
It's miserable but comforting to know
That there's a couch and weed at home waiting for me
I'm a savant on the road
I'm a fuck up when I'm home
I'll still be washing dishes
When I'm 40 years old with my kidneys cakes and braces on both my knees
Outside every inside joke, with my busted ears ringing
God knows I miss being at home
This was Mecca before the property value changed
Everywhere I love became everything that I hate
Now there's no room for broke asses like me
I don't want to lose track of my friends but distance is fucked
It's not that I don't care I'm just awful at keeping up
There's just no room in my head between the scrambled names and worn off piston rings
I'm outside every inside joke with my busted ears ringing
God knows I miss being at home