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 You called me up when I was drunk. 
 That never happened before because you've never called me since 
 I started drinking. You didn't call me much before I started drinking.
 Or write much either. But that's not the point of this story. 
 The point is, you called me. You wanted to know "what's up?" 
 I said hopefully the rum and cokes would stay down. 
 You wanted to know what else I knew. 
 I said not to get too inquisitive because I was quite drunk and quite honest.
 I'm alright now. But you persisted. 
 I said you weren't such a bitch after having called me, 
 at least it seemed like you gave a shit. You said you did and I believed you. 
 I probly shouldn't have. You said you missed me and wanted me to come back 
 and sleep with you. That I didn't belieive. You didn't either. 
 You said you  missed me, anyway. I missed you too, but I didn't say so. 
 I didn't say much anyway, and the awkward silence was half my fault. 
 Neither of us admited to our halves, we came as clean as we should. 
 I thought I did, I think I'm always honest with you and this time was 
 no exception. I don't khow what you thought, and I know you wouldn't 
 fucking tell me. But my honesty is far from the truth and I don't know what 
 to think of you. The best. Then you hung up first and I stayed on the line.