Below please find yet more very bad poetry for the collection that I am apparently working on for no good reason at all.
In my head I have given it the working title:
Happy Hour. Burnouts. Free Nachos. Sex.
because I found myself scrawling those words on a cocktail napkin recently and it seems fortuitously appropriate.
Happy Hour. Burnouts. Free Nachos. Sex.
because I found myself scrawling those words on a cocktail napkin recently and it seems fortuitously appropriate.
As always, these are extremely first draft-y. In fact, some of them probably aren’t even finished first drafts yet. That’s just how I roll.
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