I slip into the tavern and take a seat at the bar. Ordering a water, I pull my hood to completely cover my nearly silver curls and take a deep breath. I study the mark on my wrist, slipping back into my thoughts again, and barely notice it when someone sits at my side.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
I walk into the tavern, my jeans dirty and my white tee shirt and leather jacket kept clean - I hate getting my shirts dirty - and sit at the bar next to a girl. I slip my phone in my pocket, "Uhh...Gimme a coke, please, bloody good drink," I say to the bartender in my clear British accent, "Thank you."
All you need is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie-dust!
I glance at the guy before focusing back on my own drink. Sighing, I bring my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and hope I could rest for a while here without trouble.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
I glance at the girl before the bartender slides me my drink, "Thank you, this is Ace. I cant have any liquor. I get bladdered pretty easily," He looks at me weirdly, "I'm British, Lad. Get used to it," I bring the glass to my lips.
All you need is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie-dust!
He spills all over himself and I glance at him again, contemplating scooting away to prevent any damages. Instead, I look away and down my water, ordering an orange soda next.
I'm never what I like I'm double sided And I just can't hide I kind of like it When I make you cry 'Cause I'm twisted up, twisted up Inside
I flash a smile, "Nice to meet ya. I'm Joey. You should probrably keep you're pecker up. So young lads could see you, love. Some might think you're luvvly-jubbly," I say, bringing the water to my lips.
All you need is faith, trust, and a little bit of pixie-dust!
Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the senses ... deep shining ochres, burnt umber and parchments of baked earth—reflecting on itself and through itself, filtering the light. — Guildenstern (Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard)
