I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m not Adrian, struggling with an existential crisis in the poetry aisle, unable to grasp the meaning behind why so many books have been published.

I’ve got people to take care of. There’s a three alarm fire going off in my dog’s bladder. 3,6,9, and he pees on his toy chest. It’s the steroids that we’re giving him. Half a pill, twice a day. He can’t stop drinking. He urinates the longest streams. These are side-effects. We’re trying to figure out why he eats his paws. We had to change his food. It’s a small bag of wild boar. He’s got to get through his salmon first though. He might be allergic to chicken. Can you imagine?


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