As i lay there in the park i tried to remember where things went wrong. There was you acting like you owned the place, the champagne you ordered and spilt on every irrestible bitch that you could spot, the redberrie-wodka's and redberrie wodka's and how you gave me a lecture about my history of female failure, this elaborate theory about the correlation between my money failures and girlfriends leaving me especially Ems that you described as 'my only trophý woman' that vindicated my poor history with that stupid bitch Doris and what i weener i was for still wanting to be a 'sincere good friend' for Ems and that i should really do something and act and here take another wodka little brother and hit on the bar woman and, jesus, i was so drunk, i tried to hit on her and could think of nothing better than to compare her beauty with that of Vanesse Williams the first coloured woman to win the crown of Miss America and how she lost that when nudi pictures of her past hit the playboy pages and how she redeemed herself with that stupid 'sometimes the earth goes around the moon' ballad until things went really wrong because i heard myself reciting a Philip Larkin poem to her about how your parents fuck you up, they do not mean to but the do, they fill you with your faults they have and add some extra just for you and then there was nothing left to do then to leave the club and find this park to lie on the grass and think about where things went wrong.
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