You're eighteen, you don't know what you want. And you won't know what you want 'til you're fourty-five. And even if you get it, you'll be too old to use it.
I hate the way you talk to me And the way you cut your hair I hate the way you drive my car I hate it when you stare I hate your big dumb combat boots And the way you read my mind I hate you so much It makes me sick It even makes me rhyme I hate the way you're always right I hate it when you lie I hate it when you make me laugh Even worse when you make me cry I hate it when you're not around And the fact you didn't call But mostly, I hate the way I don't hate you Not even close Not even a little bit Not even at all