AN hour late means sixty minutes wasted of my life. 3600 seconds gone. I got less time nowadays to act like I've got time to spare so please spare me the torture of sitting here listening to half my world sing your praises when we both know you are made up of nothing but that custom-made blazer and skirt set you don with a savage abandon of pride.
And you totter over, unsteady on heels, you walk over in your perfectly fitting clothes and you speak words that are like an itch to my skin where they settle. Allergic reaction. Cussing is one side effect.
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