incredible like iced imps inspecting imperial indians igloos in incredibly interrant interest.
non-crack-smoking, rent-paying, rectum-clenching mouth-breather (is breathing through one's mouth really that bad? I apologise for my existence, everyone.); baggy-pants-wearin’, ghetto-fashioned bozo; Snoop-Dogg-emulating Dollar-Menu-splurging pustule.
I wonder what the worst things I do are.
Most of the time I presume I'm having fun, but not right now. First time so far that I've felt utterly down. I need to keep my jabberwockery retarded lunchbox of a mouth shut.
What's the answer?
CAMUS... THE PLAGUE.
Rob. Who I find ridiculously hard to understand due to the way he speaks. Who travelled all over the middle east this summer. Who has brilliant taste. Who understands my passions. Who kissed me when very drunk and who didn't, to my surprise, manage to forget it. Who knows more about me than I'd expect.
Is this a good person to take chocolate fudge from?
Will and my friendship is strained. Breaking down like a heart shattering you know, when you feel it disintegrate but sharp and fractured.
My heart hits the ceiling every time anything even mildly unexpected happens. The door opens. Someone walks past. I seize up like a chicken waiting for the axe to hit.
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