You've been drinking... a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Ever since fucking LongNight and Kane/Shaju and Vai getting beaten up and everything else, it's been rare to find you without a bottle in your hand. You've been at the Hanged Man about as often as home, which is not a good look for you or your relationship, but what's a drunken fucker to do?
Answer: drink more.
You tap two knuckles on the table, the universal symbol of make it a double. Monsoon season sucks. People suck. The anniversary of your kid dying? Sucks. Y'know what doesn't suck? Sitting here and glowering at anyone who dares approach, while nursing your umpteenth glass of rum and avoiding your problems. You've leaned back into your chair, arm thrown over the back as you wait for your order to be filled. Yup, this is the fucking life. Absolutely nothing wrong with your coping mechanisms.
No sir-fuckin'-ree.
Zephyr
you can be the ripest, juciest peach in the world
and there's still going to be someone who hates peaches
and there's still going to be someone who hates peaches
