It is morning. There are bottles everywhere. You think “why
does morning after party look like war zone?” You take beer bottle,
empty it, put your head under bathroom sink, then kind of tie yourself
to copper piping with elastic hair band, leave sink on. You think that
song “ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.” You put the bottle there.
It hurts. You keep confusing “knocking one over” with “rubbing one
off.” When you get to “69” you lose interest.
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