Her days are numbered
Her vitriol attitude finally starting to unequivocally mute ones self
Implode, take a drunken and harassingly fantastic inward stroll
Suppose everyone gets their fifteen minutes, yet we neglect to ever mention the rather atrocious fall from grace
Typically ashen-faced, laced in self-doubt
About to behold a brand new you
When everything needs to be turned the right way up
Interrupt yourself and go again
All over
Perhaps so very much as an outward stroll into what can turn out to be stereotypically pristine
Clean living second only to your very own mother – the one who now gets to sit lavishly atop her forever chair, glass of Chardonnay poised in hand
The one who managed to set the age-old bar far higher

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