rhubarb_j rebuttal

Oh no!! Shit, here it comes... no... must... resist... sarcastic... rebuttal... it's too powerful... You, two hundred and one songs, two hundred and sixty-six wins Me, two hundred and seventy-seven songs, one hundred and ninety-four wins (the mirror keeps laughing at my twin) Let me tell you about my life, since you're feeling a bit down from that loss: (Pull up a chair, I’ll feed you some sauce) I wake up, as always, to Beck's "Loser" playing from the Spotify-set alarm on my phone. I've tried everything, but every morning it plays, no matter what. I uninstalled Spotify months ago. (Still the same old song won’t leave me alone) The bitter tang of defeat is on my tongue. I hardly notice anymore. (Yeah it lingers like a sore) Instinctively I feel for the "L" which I know is branded on my forehead, but it is still somehow visible to everyone except me. (Mirror can’t hide what the whole world can see) I drag myself out of bed, trying not to meet the dog's gaze because I can't take the look of disgusted loathing in her eyes. I check my mail. I'm greeted by a fresh crop of "You May Already Have Lost one hundred thousand dollars" letters. With the unconscious grace of someone who's done it a million times, I swipe deftly to delete them, accidentally forwarding them to myself instead. (Another perfect fail, another "L" to the head) I shuffle to the kitchen, stubbing my toe, painfully in the process. The kettle takes forever to boil, yet it's only once it does that I realise I'm out of coffee. I pour some milk. "Milk and cookies", the breakfast of champions. I wake up, as always, to Beck's "Loser" playing from the Spotify-set alarm on my phone. I've tried everything, but every morning it plays, no matter what. I uninstalled Spotify months ago. (Still the same old song won’t leave me alone) The bitter tang of defeat is on my tongue. I hardly notice anymore. (Yeah it lingers like a sore) I sit on the couch, head in my hands, thinking of the good times - long past, when I could run like the wind, - so fast that a fat man came to the island to recruit me for the Olympics, even though I'd never seen a bobsleigh. It dawns on me that my fantasy culminates in a humiliating last place finish. I try to think of a better daydream. I fail.... "I fail!" - at least I'll make it easy for whoever inscribed my epitaph. (Say it loud and clear,: he never got the last laugh) These cookies taste terrible, I think to myself, realising as the thought arrives that I've been dining on the dog's biscuits. She's sitting to my left, looking at me with what may be pity. I'm pretty sure she shakes her head as she gets up and walks away... (Another silent judgment, another slow decay) I wake up, as always, to Beck's "Loser" playing from the Spotify-set alarm on my phone. I've tried everything, but every morning it plays, no matter what. I uninstalled Spotify months ago. (Still the same old song won’t leave me alone) The bitter tang of defeat is on my tongue. I hardly notice anymore. (Yeah it itches like a sore) I am, of course, just joking! My dog actually thinks I'm pretty cool