As the summer drags onward through a blur of coordinated obligations, displaced necessities, prolific desensitizing and undulating romps with the mind, I find myself less alive. I miss freedom. Every minute feels like I'm waiting for the day to end so I can continue not sleeping and advance (or not) to a repetition of the same minutes in another
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A fact: I think she agrees.
A response: I think so, however, I am being held hostage by Matty unless I can supply him a gallon of Jack ... which is where you come in.
A declaration: I await with great anticipation.
A burn: Fucktard.
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sniff, sniff.
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