We don't deal in self-deceit. We deal in deceit.
I can't even pass the G. D. fountain without being poked at by those trashy hipster fuck-collectors. They must know. They must. It's like they're smoking at me. And pressed firmly in between their index and expressive finger they hold my Marlboro red. They wait for the wind to choose my direction, they french inhale and then exhale directly into my nicotine need. And my pace quickens towards the Open Pantry where I can choose to join the wannabes.
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