you.
bastard at the bar.
in the fucking t-shirt.
i don't know you.
you don't know me.
why do i know what gigs you're going to?
why do i know about the new 'project' you're thinking of/have/will start(ing/ed)?
why the fuck do i know you're friends with some fucking guy from some fucking band?
you and your bastard cocking t-shirt.
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2 comments:
Are you talking to me?
That's just about perfect, that's exactly the process my brain goes through about a hundred times on any night out. Well done.
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