I stand on the side of the challenger, making excuses for absolutely everybody. I’m on a Mission.com/alphamale. Google keeps reminding me that It’s my anniversary. What Google doesn’t understand is that our anniversary lasts through this week entirely and even through the next.

A bouquet of yellow flowers wakes me from her grasp. She has placed them on my nightstand, and I could smell them through my dreams. They were circling my wakefulness like vultures, eating at the portions of my subconscious that were boiling into the day.

Offer me an epidural, and I’ll take it, she says. I’m sitting on the toilet. What can I say, it’s your body. The part of me inside of you isn’t happy about it from my perspective is all that I want to say.

You don’t know a thing about epidurals, she says.

She’s been upset with me all day. I’m blaming the hormones even though you’ll crucify me for that and every other little thing I’ve said.

Pop a hard break right here in this swiftly shifting moment, says the content police. You’re not going to fuck anyone till you’re dead, and even then, you’ve seen enough on your there Gingko Baloba for me to take the piss on you three hundred lives over. Can you imagine what you’re ancestors wouldn’t have given for such a cosmically expansive hole in the wall that you’ve got beaming from the palm of your hand forever and at your constant command?


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