Prologue

“Everyday. Everysinglefuckingday.”

That is the answer of ‘how often do you think of me these days’ question. There hasn’t been a day passed that the thought of you, how insignificant it might be, failed to cross my mind. There… now you know the truth, so what’s you’re going to do about it now?

Great. I’m doomed. Why was I ask the question again? Oh yes, of course, my cute little fingers just acted on their own will. They’ve decided to sent the biggest question of this century of my life out of my consent. It must be my subconscious, is it? I mean, two bottles of beer shouldn’t be that dangerous. Or so I thought. Or maybe I was already itching to ask it all this long and just finally had a reason to sent it: I was drunk. Well, for whatever reason, it’s out. The question came out and now I’ve got the answer. Now I got to answer back. That’s why I’m doomed. How am I supposed to answer that?

 

 

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