I knew that I couldn't hold my shit. I went anyway because, let's face it, who in the hell would have passed up that opportunity? I spat up, and you ignored it. I bled greasy on your dress, and you let it be. Jesus, you are willing to put up with a lot. Then I spilled my shit all over the floor, and it was messy. You hardly said anything about it, but I knew. I'm not stupid. Instead of yelling at me to clean it up, you kept silent until I had reorganized everything on my own. Now I know what to do, I fuck for sport, but it's not everything. But I am talking less, and listening more. And even you are talking more.
You are my friend.
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