Welcome to The O.C, bitch.
Florals? For Spring? groundbreaking.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
It feels like a perfect night to dress up like hipsters and make fun of our exes, ah ah, ah ah.
Despite your pseudo-bohemian appearance and vaguely leftist doctrine of beliefs, you know nothing about art or sex that you couldn’t read in any trendy New York underground fashion magazine.
I’m sick of your tattoos and the way you always criticise The Smiths and Morrissey.
My summer look is ‘bereaved mistress showing up to the funeral against the wishes of the family’.
You’re a virgin who can’t drive.
We’ve all seen penises we weren’t supposed to see.