“Intimacy,” I said to myself, shuffling in bare feet and underwear through the kitchen, “turns me on.” Over the next few minutes, I colored in Cap’n Crunch’s moustache with a black sharpie and groaned in slight agony from the light inside the refrigerator. I stand there for too long, with the door open and my eyes closed, waiting for an imaginary
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de Rossi did a good job getting me properly inebriated this weekend (not that she had to try hard at all) so I'm back in New York. Give me a call sometime.
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