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Drink 3

There are gabby ladies like clucking chickens enjoying a fantasy with no male distraction though they distract me with the shrill and far shriller conniving ideas: every sentence the thriller, competitive conversations of gabby Nancys — annoy me some more as you keep glancing at the guy writing on the pad: what could be so fun? Anything so rad? I doubt these women write at all, and wonder if they’ll recognize me at the curtain call since fame is a consequence of my desire, not the outcome for which I perspire and work, day in night owl — time to get out of here — time to pay for this beer, maybe don’t flinch it? I tilt my head in pleasant wonderment these women make raspberries, fart with their mouths, more pleasant than any other sounds — now cajoling a way to get outside contemplating to get on Lauren’s good side, and soon they’ll arrive at a conclusion watching me drive away.

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