“Nothing would please me more.”
I can’t help but feel there was more to that sentence. “Name’s Chris. Indian hot sex I choose “Lego House” and put it on repeat. “Not doing so bad for myself, already made two good friends.”
“Hell yeah, man,” Chris says, holding out his fist. I put the car in drive as we begin our “journey” to the city. But, why? I reach over, pull it off the charger and lay back down, holding it above my face. Doesn’t sound too needy. I start having a mini panic attack. Please, God. But, not before Chris caressed the drum set and said to it, “You will be mine. it’s not for me to say. Please, God. I slam my head back down on my pillow and let out an audible sigh. Hey, neighbor! Sure! Now, shut up for a minute. Oh, God. Sick to death of looking at all the moving boxes,” he says, accompanied by nervous laughter. It’s silent for a moment, then something even worse than Michael Jackson emits from the speakers: “It’s Britney, bitch!”
We approach a stop light and I do a literal facepalm.
