I Wrote This Instead of Screaming

Another Saturday night spent baptizing our problems in fluorescent light.
The coffee's a sermon on burning out slow.
The jukebox is screaming a hymn for the broke,
and we're just disciples of nowhere to go.

And the sugar rush hits like a cheap revelation,
we're praying for something to break the stagnation.

Oh, this ain't a breakdown, it's just a dress rehearsal,
a semi-sweet tragedy, a pocket-sized funeral.
So let's raise a glass to the parts that we play,
'cause we'll be forgotten by Sunday anyway.

We're drawing escape routes on a stained paper napkin,
a glorious campaign in blue ballpoint ink.
A new testament that we'll never believe in,
while the clock on the wall just watches us sink.

And the sugar rush hits like a cheap revelation,
we're praying for something to break the stagnation.

Oh, this ain't a breakdown, it's just a dress rehearsal,
a semi-sweet tragedy, a pocket-sized funeral.
So let's raise a glass to the parts that we play,
'cause we'll be forgotten by Sunday anyway.

I'm getting tired of the irony, the script's wearing thin,
is this where the tragedy actually begins?
I'm all out of clever lines, all out of fake grace,
I think I hate the smile that I've glued to my face.

Oh, this ain't a breakdown, it's just a dress rehearsal,
a semi-sweet tragedy, a pocket-sized funeral.
So let's raise a glass to the parts we play,
'cause we'll be forgotten by Sunday anyway.

Another Saturday night... spent baptizing our problems...
Another Saturday night...