  Dammit. That story I asked to be read didn't really take place in the South. That ruined my trifecta that I thought I had with the piece.
Who the hell cares about South Windsor, Connecticut skanks? I don't. They're just leftovers from the plethora of Kennedy skank bangings over the past few decades. "Would you say I have a plethora of skank bangings? " "Si, John, I would say you have a plethora" "Ted, do you know what a plethora is?
" I don't want blue blood hoochies, I require my trash pure Southern. PBR blooded. Read the story if you want, but it's ruined for me because I can't imagine her screaming "Daddy paid for this dress; you ain't my Daddy" no more.
Dammit.
She even jumped on the hood of a car and everything. I'm all alone. Not figuratively, literally. I'm alone and sober. This can't last long. A sober B and an entire night alone don't mix well. Like oil and vodka. Mmmm, oil and vodka. I think we have some olive oil in the pantry and the liquor store doesn't close until 9.
Boredom and sobriety problem solved, people. Nothing more to say. 
