There’s always something scraped into his skin with a compass like “Arsenal” or the name of a friend. His eyes look like they have an infection of some kind. All his clothes are bad, although to his credit, they’re bad on purpose, because otherwise, really, why would he be wearing those wraparound sunglasses my driving instructor Barry used to have, or the same wide-leg jeans my dad wore in the ’90s. There’s a guy I know who I find a bit gross, which is partly why I actually like him so much.
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