The words same again sound a lot like San Miguel. If you were only drinking San Miguel it would be no problem if when you said San Miguel the barman heard same again or if you said same again the barman heard San Miguel. It becomes a problem when you switch from buying rounds to getting just your own, and you want a San Miguel but the barman hears same again, and makes you the three drinks you'd spent the last two hours buying, none of which was a San Miguel, and you watch him doing this with a look on your face like an android seeing a mirror for the first time, and he puts them down in front of you and says nine ninety please and you say no, San Miguel.
The job centre and the tax woman didn't get together and hand-write me a welcome-back-to-the-valued-side-of-society poem, nor did they fill my cupboards with olives, drugs and exotic cheese experts, so I did all that myself and invoiced them. I'm beginning to think we're no longer friends.
Lionlike Unwifed
Next door like to scrape and knock. It happens at night and in the morning and they take a break when you leave the house. If you're lying in bed it sounds like someone you've wronged is at the back door. It's good to have a detailed fear. After a million tiny wallops there won't be a wall left. They'll get brick dust in the soup. We've drawn circles and times for when and where we think the first head or hand will burst through. There's good odds and a webcam and I think I might get rich.
Additional Seating Upheaval
A funny conversation happened near me the other day, you should've been there, I've forgotten it now, it was a right laugh. When I got home I was chortling myself rabid and made everyone pause the HBO drama and listen, by the end of it they were grinning and snorting and I was foaming at the eyes but I couldn't manage to get the punchline out, they said I should relax but I couldn't, and they had to airlift me to hospital, all the ambulances were busy at the aquarium, and when I woke up I couldn't remember the punchline at all, or really what the story was about or why I found it funny, and everyone who I'd told it to, as soon as they'd heard my lungs had been replaced, ran round to re-tell it to me hoping that the re-telling would dislodge the punchline which surely must still be up there somewhere, and they re-told it and re-re-told it and did different voices and mixed up the order and changed the locations but nothing dropped into my head, and they began a campaign to find the people I'd overheard, but no one else was really interested.
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