A grotesque potion in which I'm forced swim. Or drown in. Resuscitate. Drown again. Ad nauseum.
I am a liar. Look! I can shower! Liar. Look! I can put on clothes! Liar.
The only explanation for the bad O2/N2 infusion / Other than a desperate delusion / Crying / Confusion / Is that clearly, I was born elsewhere
Because when grey and white matter / Misbehave in just the right way / The words flow faster than water / Slick sick quicksilver literary alchemy / I bow at the alter
Having just revealed to him and myself that I’m kinda a dick, it takes me a moment to process the accidental subtext and implications of my own words. So when Alex lobs back a base, “We’re not strangers, Morgan,” it feels like a small betrayal bereft of a segue.
She was a realistic drunk. Besides, making desperate promises to yourself about how your drinking isn’t going to destroy your life is cliche.
There is nothing more cliche than an alcoholic infatuated with her bartender.
This was in a time when bars were still properly smoke-filled and cigarettes came cheap with the pull of a knob, dispensed by a well-worn machine leftover from an era where one could still smoke on airplanes.
Horrid adventure, terrible drama / Mosquitoes and quicksand en-route to nirvana