Stab, stab, stab.
I puncture a tennis ball to bits.
You look over my shoulder.
"Practicing?"
"Of course."
"Really, 'cuz it looks more like venting anger."
I glare.
"That's absurd."
Stab, stab, stab.
I puncture a tennis ball to bits.
You look over my shoulder.
"Practicing?"
"Of course."
"Really, 'cuz it looks more like venting anger."
I glare.
"That's absurd."
Stab, stab, stab.
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