Let’s take a look at her, let’s see if I can manage to get her down. In front of the lady at the fish counter, the loudspeakers announcing the store would be closing, she stood comically straight, something she’d learned from her mother, that you stand up straight when you order at a c.
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This is my eighth pandemic dispatch. The first was about my father’s hip replacement, the second was about my marriage, the third was about my toothache, the fourth was about alienation, the fifth was a fake TV recap, the sixth was about power in the workplace, and the seventh was about my neighborhood. This time I broke up with my writing career. FP
Dear writing career,
Sorry for doing this by letter. But I want you to be able to come back to this after the spite has worn off. Eventually you’ll understand that this was the best outcome for both of us.