Clones in the Crack

Walked in late.

Bartender looks at me like he's already unimpressed.

I respect that.

“Whiskey?”

Nah. He goes:

“Didn't think so.”

Hold up.

I know that tone.

Look over— DJ skipped the song

right before the good part.

Exactly what I would've done.

Okay.

This is getting weird.

I DON'T HATE THAT MOTHERFUCKER—

HE'S JUST TOO MUCH LIKE ME.

Same look. Same walk.

Same bad habit of making everything look easy.

I DON'T HATE THAT MOTHERFUCKER— I JUST KNOW WHAT HE'S ABOUT TO

DO. 'Cause every move that's pissing me off—

is some shit I'd probably do too. (yeah)

Security at the door: “You can't stand there.”

I say:

“I'm not standing here.”

He looks down at my feet.

Then back at me.

Fuck.

That's good. Keep moving.

Guy at the bar talking to a woman.

I hear him say:

“Trust me.”

Oh, don't trust that motherfucker.

She says:

“Why?”

Because I recognize the technique.

HE'S TOO MUCH LIKE ME!

Too confident with insufficient information.

TOO MUCH LIKE ME!

Acts like he planned it when the shit just worked.

TOO MUCH LIKE ME!

Walks into trouble then looks surprised—

Like: “Who the fuck put that there?”

Me.

Probably me.

Bathroom mirror. Finally.

Somebody normal. I straighten my jacket.

Reflection does too.

I stare.

He stares. “What?”

“Don't fucking look at me like that.” Walk back outside.

Bartender— me. DJ— me.

Security— me. Whole fucking room— me.

No. Absolutely not. I leave.

I DON'T HATE THESE MOTHERFUCKERS— THEY'RE JUST TOO MUCH LIKE ME!

WHO INVITED ALL THIS CONFIDENCE WITH THIS LITTLE GUARANTEE?!

Same mistakes! Same excuses!

Same look when shit goes wrong!

If everybody here is me— THEN SOMEBODY PUT MY FUCKING SONG ON!

Driver: “Where to?” “Motherfucker.” Driver: “What?” “Nothing.

Drive.”