They call it bad luck

Eleven eleven is nothing to me, don’t believe in riddles, don’t believe in the meaning of dreams.

Black cats are my favorite pastime, walking under leaders my favorite shortcut.

I look myself in broken mirrors cause I can’t seem to afford a new unbroken one,

people tell me the next seven years for me would be whining and cry,

but I know in seven years I’ll be in Paris walking under French ladders.

Apparently I’ll end up lonely and sad, untangling my long hair and looking after cats

Just because I joke about it all the time.

But there have been princesses kissing frogs and rich heirs sleeping away their lives,

And they’ve joked about it too,

yet they got their “happy ever after” and they lived happy ever after.

So why can’t I just do that too?

background music:
Love Affair by Regina Spektor