What ever it'll be, it has to be wrong

We had a huge fight. The kind of fight that starts with something trivial but then after a while of screaming becomes worse, and changes course. The kind that evolves and mutates. I cried and screamed and threw a glas at him, and he held my wrists so hard I'm sure they'll both be blue tomorrow. He walked out the door and didn't even bother to shut it after him. This was ten minutes a go so I haven't stopped shaking yet. I need someone else to pour my liqour tonight. I need some wrong kind of love.

I need a dark hotel bar, and I need Amanda. I'll face London tonight wearing a chiffongdress from Prada and anxiety painted all over my face. If you see me, please pretend that you don't know who I am.