Just Another
Pete Yorn

You and I , we’re two of a kind,
I hate to say it but you’ll never relate,
What makes you tick?
It makes me smile

You said that I should get away from it all
And bury my head in the sand if I want to,
I think you…..should thank me now

You were lying wide-awake in the garden
Trying to get over your stardom
And I could never see you depart us
And you’re my baby,
You’re just another girl
Just another girl

I never mind the way I had to see ya
My working on a day show never explains why I see you
And I feel your pain.

I love to wear my work inside of my head
I can’t complain but you should never react the way you did
I feel your time

You were lying wide-awake in the garden
Trying to get over your stardom
And I could never see you depart us
And you’re my baby,

You were lying wide-awake in the garden
Trying to get over your stardom
And I could never see you depart us
And you’re my baby,
You’re just another girl
You’re just another girl
You’re just another girl

Jonas Vargas drove southwest down the Adlai E. Stevenson expressway, the weight of thirty-seven years of frustration bearing down upon him. At a time in his life when he should be raising children and earning a decent living and worrying about college costs, he was single, foot-loose and fancy free, and frustrated. He had never been married, had no children – hell, he hadn’t even had a date in six months, and sex? What did they always say in the mob movies? Fahgetaboutit.

When you haven’t had a date, much less sex, in a while, you begin to think about all the ones who got away. The oh-so-close, and the not-so-close. The ones who would have married you in a heartbeat that you just couldn’t commit to, and the ones you were desperate to marry who could never commit to someone like you. You think of all the “you’re a nice guy, but…” speeches, and the pretty blonde girl who wanted nothing more than to be your girlfriend that you never bothered to call back. You begin to wonder why you couldn’t see that the girl you dated in your sophomore year in college (and who willingly gave you your first blow job) was a wonderful, loving person who liked you for who you were. Or why you did call back the brunette you dated your first years out of college, even when all the red flags pointed to heartbreak. Most of all, when you’re thirty-seven years old and never married, you hear your relatives talk about their “single cousin” in the hushed tones and voices that people use when they wonder secretly if… you’re….well…..you know. How do you explain them that your longest relationship lasted more than eighteen months? Because of the few who’ve made it past date three, the family has never met any of them. And what would they say if they found out that some of your best friends are…..you know.

And then there’s your friends. Happy, married (although some, admittedly, for the second time…you swallowed beers and heartbreak with them when they went through the first divorce), many with children (those without never wanted them anyway), they all are further down the road of life than you are. It was a road that, long ago, terrified you, back when you were thin, in shape, and had a full head of blonde hair and a bright future. But the light at the end of the tunnel was an EMD locomotive, and the future is more uncertain today than when you were eighteen. Back then, thirty-five was old – and by then you’d be married with a successful career and a big family with lots and lots of kids. The children are just ghosts now, memories long faded by the harsh reality that is your psyche, a dream never to be realized. You’ll never be the scion of a successful family, ala Joseph Kennedy. You worry more now about dying alone, being the lucky son-of-a-bitch fortunate enough to outlive family and friends, and be the person some poor Fed Ex delivery person finds three days dead and bloated when the packages you order in your senility off of QVC and E-bay start piling up. The anguish overwhelms you, as you get lost in the music on the radio, and wonder if things will ever get better.

Send lawyers, guns and money…
Dad, get me out of this…