Oh, are you?
“I’m six kinds of trouble,” she said. I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m in the middle of a bad breakup,” she continued. Internally I guffawed. I laughed until I wept and then slept it off, all within a single beat of the dance music.
“Just give me your fucking number so I can never call you!” I shouted. Enough with the fucking around. Let’s get down to it! The world, with its tap dancing incestuous band lineups who are ex girlfriends of bass players of bands on whose singers I have crushes, just will not grow past my own udder.