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June 8, 2011
At the kitchen counter in semi-darkness, I'm eating cherries straight from the bag I bought them in, unwashed, and haven't even bothered to do so much as tear off a sheet of paper towel into which to spit the pits but instead have been doing so directly into my palm, like tiny pulpy hearts, along with the collection of stems. I'm not giving these cherries the respect they deserve, I'm not tasting each delicious one individually the way I should, I'm cramming them into my impatient maw like they don't cost six dollars a pound, like a rich rabid raccoon.