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maybe drinking ourselves out of boredom is just the subtle lie hiding underneath our fingernails fidgeting with the tears in our jeans fibers saturated with missed shots, hints of sticky vanilla, peach carbonated overtones activated yeast from gurgling sips while shoulders hold their own opinions electric slide to match hip movement charted by spinning mirrors clinging to styrofoam balls their reflections expose the mold, burroughing into over exposed skin a welcome infection that ever present inclination towards inebriation colonizing the dead minutes between one cigarette and the next