I get the distinct feeling
by Francine DuBois

he's petting his own hands
she's watching the sink fill

he's complaining that the Guiness, after scotch, tastes like "meat juice"
she's whispering about the crowds at "bloodbath and beyond"

he's sitting between two math professors arguing about Cray supercomputers
she's been asked to vomit in the grass, not in the mulch

this party is so over

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version
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