The clock is ticking. I’m going to die. Dammit.
Not too long ago, I was hanging with a good friend a mine. It was the usual hanging out thing, which in my world means sitting on your hemorrhoids, drinking beer, and talking bad about puppies. He’s 82. Christ! 82! I can’t even imagine what that is like (but I’m starting to be able to). Anyway, we’re having a beer and watching other friends do manual labor. As we relax, he tells me a story about a phone call his wife got. Their house got destroyed by Hurricane Sandy. It has since been rebuilt, but some dudes called or something and tried to get her to sign up for some bullshit I only half paid attention to (because that’s what friends do). Some kind of…
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