Hoppla! Dieses Bild entspricht nicht unseren inhaltlichen Richtlinien. Um mit dem Veröffentlichen fortfahren zu können, entferne es bitte oder lade ein anderes Bild hoch.
Hoppla! Dieses Bild entspricht nicht unseren inhaltlichen Richtlinien. Um mit dem Veröffentlichen fortfahren zu können, entferne es bitte oder lade ein anderes Bild hoch.
London was very unpredictable. West was one of those places. You couldn't sleep at night thinking things would be calm — as a regular civilian you have to be alert. A regular morning where I just wanted to sit in my own superior solitude, drink a cup of coffee and entertain myself with a few episodes of Baddies West was how I kept my sanity and my own personal security.
Ofcourse, God seemed to have an issue with that. As a random donny is now throwing up in my toilet.
I wince at the harsh vomiting sounds, hoping he's aiming directly into the bowl so I don't have to clean a fucking thing up. 'Cause hell no. My eyes train their focus on the rhythmic water droplets jumping off of my coffee cup sitting on the drying rack. I downed it very quickly, not wanting to deal with whatever this is with no caffeine in my system. The droplets themselves seem to mock me; they were able to get out of their situation... it seems as though I was being trapped.
I mean, I would say I'm confused. I'm allowed to be confused, right? A random guy comes into my home and throws a wad of cash at me, then ducks into my bathroom to be sick? Dressed in a grey tracksuit but with a black headband I knew could turn into a balaclava with a swift pulling motion by the hand. One of the guys I spent my whole life working to get away from. In my home.
