I’m on my knees, and he’s pointing it at me.
I ask myself why we couldn’t have at least gone to a nice restaurant.
Somewhere with a chill atmosphere and a selection of starters that might’ve made all of this a bit more palatable. A moment ago, he said he was sorry I got twisted up in this scene, and that I must be on an 18-carat run of bad luck. At least it wasn’t the old ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ schtick.
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