Wrizzit
For everything, down to the scribbles.
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There isn’t a cocktail strong enough to relax my fine lines, decompress my shoulders or let me forget my hair’s a mess. I want to be that snail I crushed on the pavement or the moth spread eagle on the window for days waiting for someone to check in: are you still watching? I want what I can’t have. It’s not a fad. It’s called love bombing because it obliterates you, it doesn’t let you breathe or think. I have mixed a mini bar special, it’s called The Kitchen Sink.
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