He's Sick Of Spray-On Pants

The air was thick around him. Sweaty bodies pulsated around the crowded dance floor.
So cliche, he thought.
They both go to all of the same clubs where everyone takes all the same drugs and talks about how they’re so fucked up.
A skinny girl in too-tight jeans stumbled over to him and stuck her tongue down his throat. He humoured her for a while until she realised he was someone else. Horrified, he left her to gyrate to the music and sought shelter in the lounge area of the club. It was a sight to be seen.
He didn’t want to be here anymore. He used to do this all the time; club-hopping hoping to find some desperate girl to take home but he was sick of it. He wasn’t like this. He wanted to be a struggling artist who did anything for their creative lifestyle. He wanted to live for something, not just cigarettes and bad beer.
It’s time for his yearly change of style. He grabbed his jacket; I wonder who they’ll be next week he thought on his way out.
He was done with this. He was going to find her.

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