After several painful years of mounting pressure, a final set of ass and thighs wiggled and shimmied into an overpriced pair of pants incapable of hiding all the things cloths were meant to cover. Deluded by hopes of appearing on The Cobra Snake or LASTNIGHTSPARTY, she winced and squeezed; pulled and stretched until the seams of her godforsaken pants were more than a metaphor for the tearing fabric of the universe. No amount of cocaine or number of pretentious bands could right the wrong she was desperately attempting.
And then it happened. With one final heave, an unraveling thread snapped and a portion of the universe collapsed in on itself. All of Williamsburg was lost in the blast.
What We Found in the Divorce: Part V — Time
2 years ago