Turn Over Your Ticket Stubs

RUN, i yell. or that's what i try to yell, anyway. what comes out is something more along the lines of RMPHFLPNTS, because there's a hand over my mouth. it strikes me that the thing that just escaped me sounds an awful lot like RUFFLEPANTS and i have an internal giggle at how much that will confuse you. wait, who does this hand belong to? oh it's you. again. because, as usual, you don't want to hear what i'm saying. you'd rather go around believing that i told you to ruffle someone's pants instead of hearing what i actually tried to tell you. and then when it all comes crashing down around you because you ruffled some pants-whatever that means- instead of running you'll come back to me either blaming me for obviously giving you the wrong advice or crying because you know you should've listened to me in the first place. you have these epiphanies from time to time. and everytime i think that maybe this will be the one where you hear me. but you don't. why even ask if you're just planning on blowing off whatever i say. don't waste my time. and get your hand off my face; i can't breathe properly.