Dispatch from the shitter. I am sick from cheap, undercooked pizza. Something about being in the Beehive reminds me of the third world. Reject graffiti, childish and politically-inclined. Cum in the basin of a public toilet. The sound of Bryan Adams’s voice. Tattooed hipsters, the pierced, preppy, “like you know” pub class of the iron belt. Here you may smoke, seated in a social distortion.