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I am a mess.
Not in the – “Please come and save me!” kind of way.
Not in the way they show it in the movies where the person says it with tears in their eyes like it’s something that they need to fix – like it’s part of the speech where they promise they’ll do better.
No.
I am the kind of mess that has you going wide-eyed and wondering if you should back out slowly or enter the room and close the door behind you.
Because I’m standing here in a T-shirt and underwear exposing all my tattoos listening to Linkin Park with my dirty laundry on The Chair.
And you’re wondering where my other sneaker is and whether you should help me find it or just let me be epic right there –
Because maybe you’re a mess too.
I’m the kind of mess that has you wondering if there’s more mess – and maybe you want to drop your Converse on the floor with mine so that we shove them under the couch together.
I’m the kind of mess that has you laughing with me coz you know that your socks are with my socks on Sock Island where all socks go to escape our ugly big feet.
I’m the kind of mess that knows that there’s a broom, but hell if I’m gonna use it until I sneeze.
I’m the kind of mess that will make neat the wardrobe and wreck it the morning after.
And the stove. Poor stove.
I’m a mess.
I’m a mess baby.
So what are you gonna do about it?!

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