Watching the man i adored, the man who had groped my heart with his love, now grope this badly dressed fat whores arse, and with the same hands that i had held, and that had held me, hands that had made me feel so safe, hands that had delighted me between the thighs to rampant rabbit standards. It was too much. Fuck this, i thought. I was leaving, but not before necking the remainder of my double vodka, a dubious attempt to deaden this pain even slightly. I staggerd out of the nightclub and over to a nearby wall, where i plonked my drunk self down, and began to cry. I cried for me, for us, for our wonderfull love that was dead, and for my tights, my beautiful lace tights, my 10 quid a fucking pair tights !! that were, after several drunken falls, equally as torn as my soul.
a little more..