What a mood. Who are you? I'll blast your article if you'll blast mine, right? That's this, yeah? Picture two writers in a room--the one will always try and jockey past the other, the point always being--Chamomile or Irish Breakfast or whiskey or gin--quinella in the paddock. You're the type... Fuck... You want to win, don't you? In a way, I take pleasure in the notion of a writer, fighting... If this was the 1890s, maybe.
Go ahead, rejoin. I'll have forgotten this mistake of commenting on a blog; already, I'll be pinning dream-catchers to the posts of my porch in Garrison, where for hours, my beautiful husband will then sit on my lap, sip lemonade, and duly gush about, "who the fuck cares what people say?"
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