What’s in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?
Another damned night. I’m drinking at The Dog’s Bollocks with friends. I’m regaling the lot with some cryptic analysis, which is what they enjoy from me. Feel a little tense, though, as if I’m waiting for a jump-scare. The conversation bounces on from their inner turmoils to their sex lives, and to how we should all just become strippers somewhere. I thoughtfully picture myself in skimpy lingerie, sliding around a pole.
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