Looks More Like a Fire Extinguisher to Me by Dizz Tate

IN your chair, you sit with your feet on the table. You wear grey tracksuit bottoms and a grey t-shirt. You hair is greasy and licks at your shoulders. “Get your rotten feet off my table,” I say. In my chair, which is orange, like a hospital chair, you are younger, rounder, in jeans that are too skinny. “And get out of my chair.”
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