She called me a whore.
I suppose I deserve it.
She doesn’t understand my incessant need for it.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
I don’t think, necessarily, that whore was called for.
And being my friend it felt a little extra harsh.
Everyone asks…
How many do you need?
One more.
One more.
Is always the answer.
Oh wait.
She called me a bike whore.
Did I not make that clear?
What don’t you have enough of?
And what, pray tell, did you think I was talking about?
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