Rum and coke

Though I have recently passed my driving test I do not have a car. So now the most useful thing my license actually does is serve as ID for when I decide to buy alcohol.

It’s a stressful experience for someone with my features. Mainly because it looks and feels like Justin Beiber stole my face and became famous.

Yes I look young. Therefore fuckbags feel the need to ID me. All the time. I buy alcohol: ID. I buy cigarettes: ID. I buy a hammer with murderous intent: fucking ID.

It’s been a rough day. I fancy some rum. I pick up the rum, and I think I can’t have straight rum, I need cola, oh cola is 2 for £2.50? Why not? You know what would be great with this? Ice. So now I have heavy bags, but IT’S OK because a short walk home and rum and coke will flow.

I notice at this point that my jeans are starting to slip, not because I’m into that sort of fashion and certainly not because I’m an easy access prostitute but because I’m not wearing a belt. Why not, you may ask. Well it’s because this morning my jeans made me a promise; they sat on my hips and didn’t fall. They made a contract with me and I trusted my trousers. Wrongly. They betray me at inconvenient moments.

I’ve never said fuck so fucking much to an inanimate object. I won’t fold them. It’s the principle. They need to be punished. Fucking jeans.

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