Irish Car BombCarly Sachs
In another version I’d be blond, tits up to my throat. Tattoos. My grandmother calls me Cherry. I am blood cells in a jar, the stem you knot with your tongue tonight to impress some other girl whose hair is less shiny than mine. Another round and pool stick. I call the shots. We don’t serve that here. You: all folded bills and matchbooks. In the tea light’s gleam, we do Irish car bombs and I think who names these drinks now a days? You say it’s supposed to taste like a milkshake. It doesn’t.
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