Dear Cake (the band - not the food - although the food is good too),

I don't know much about Cinco de Mayo, I'm never sure what it's all about. When you tried to tell me of all the love you had, I was cleaning oil from beaches seeing only what was bad. I need your arms around me, I need to feel your touch. I need your understanding, I need your love so much. You tell me that you love me so, you tell me that you care but when I need you baby, you're never there. A million times I ask you, and then I ask you over again, you only answer perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

You're showing me where I can sign what I can expect to find but how can you say you'll be happy when you turn the screws? We are building a religion. We are building it bigger. We are widening the corridors and adding more lanes. Heads of state who ride and wrangle, who look at your face from more than one angle, can cut you from their bloated budgets like sharpened knives through Chicken McNuggets. Excess ain't rebellion. You're drinking what they're selling.

Satan is the only one who seems to understand.

love,
me