Quick, ¡Margargitas!

You don’t need to drive me crazy; that shit’s walking distance.

You also don’t need to fuck me over.

I can do that myself.

Now pay attention, ladies and gentlemen, as I jump from the fourth story and snap my femur in two with an audible crack and try to gimp after him as he walks away from my mangled body. Tortoises that are road kill have it easier than me. At least it’s quick.

This way is less painful than flying down the steps and catching up to him, tapping his shoulder, and asking for an explanation. I don’t know why I’d ask; I know what he’d say. At least I can pretend he didn’t see me fall.

Pretend I don’t know what he’d say.

I wish I were a tortoise with two broken legs, a semi-truck roaring down the road my way.

At least that’d be quick.

I’m drunk. It’s margarita Monday and Alex was my designated driver.

Everything will probably be okay.

Seems like it anyway.

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