“I never asked for this,” he whispered, picking at the dirt under his fingernail. “My life. My love. My location. My misfortunes. All handed to me by the invisible proprietors of hard luck.” He wanted to write, but didn't know how. Actually, he did. Knew better than David Sedaris and Nick Hornby and whomever else was selling book rights in
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p.s. who are you?
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...that's the best way i know how to describe myself?
ps: who are YOU?
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