Pleather

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Here I am again at Starbucks where everyone can see what I fucking type. Everyone is voyeuristic. To make matters worse, I couldn’t get a god damn table so I’m basically in one of those weird half comfy chair that is the bracket just above an Ikea chair but in why would you ever purchase one because it’s TOTALLY NOT made of real leather. Not the bullshit fake pleather either. Trust me, I know cause I’m poor and visit one on lay-away from Walmart. “Only a few more payments,” I tell the Martha in Electronics. “uh huh soooo are you gonna buy something this time or not?” We both know I never do.

Plus, my friend Mark from West Palm has one that sheds and I get all the damn flakes all over myself . And I always end up going to Delray after a serious drunken sleep session. Of course I’m going to meet up with my ex the next day, and of course she’s gonna remember how hilarious I am. And next thing you know, her lips are locked around my dick in the Uber where I feel kinda bad for Colombia Jorge that he has to hear the popping in a subtle rhythm like a bad trap song. But it’s your fault. You sold you’re own fate when you didn’t want to take the joke further about the girl we saw pushing a dog in a stroller. Welcome to America.

But lucky for you it halted when she pulled out a piece of that damn rhino lined leather from her mouth and screams “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!” That only forced your fight or flight to heroically play fast and the furious with the 2012 Civic to get over 4 lanes on 95. Slightly dodging a Semi, a Ford Ranger with a “Down mess with Texas!” bumper sticker, and a Town and Country where three kids were glued to Despicable Me but are now sobbing from the interruption of my meatstick. A sight that can’t be ever unseen (ask my ex). Finally we are at the shoulder. Cars wising past. Me trying to win a game of hide the cock while my ex’s hair is caught in my zipper. Just a typical weekend in South Florida.

But I see you girl in the yoga pants pretending to stare at your iPhone but secretly looking at my screen. I’m on to you. You’re not fooling me. I know you read that. I know you’re appalled. I know you secretly texted your home girl about the disgusting guy that you were forced to sit next too. But you can’t look any more. I’m done. No more judgement. No more stories. No more rants. It’s over. Some of us have lives that revolve around not getting into random stranger’s posted anonymous thoughts. Some of us are working foke who’ve gotta pay bills with our hard earned cash. You know the lights, the heat, the car insurance. And what about you? What better things do you have to do today?

Wanna head with me to Walmart?

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