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Hey, it’s not it’s, it’s its, she realized. She cut short the thought, and with it its complicated memories. E¥she'd been try ing to cut down on her bitching for months now, with little success. She had to she knew; her friends, what few of them were left, averted their eyes, with a rolling motion like a diseased heifer giving birth to a watermelon. Not that she’d know. Indeed she didn’t even know what in the hell a heifer was, but the word fit in the sentence like a … oh hell, she thought again, cut with the stupid metaphors, you dumb broad. Nobody wants to hear … there she went again. Bitching like a boring shlemiel with hemorrhoids and a low-fiber diet groaning on a fleabag’s toilet, with a toilet tank that took on the dreams of the poor and the sick of heart, the losers, the junkies, the sops, the post-abortion runaways, the low-rent whores, the homos on the down-low. It stank of diesel and the air tasted of cheap bourbon and ruined lives. An ancient charbroil-mildew stain advanced up the wall opposite the biffy door. The room’s only light, a fluorescent tube struggling for the last dregs life, flickered like a morse code message spelling out the barely legible epitaph on a broken headstone in some god-forsaken churchyard in a …What was she thinking about again? She tried to trace her thoughts back to their origins, and absently tore a sheet of her desk calendar. She used it to rolled a splif, a September one, cool and mellow, redolent of the burning leaves and crackling footsteps and complicated memories of autumn.