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September 12, 2012
I think it was the waffle that did it. The waffle that reminded me of April 8, big and soft and chewy, with a pool of sticky syrup too sweet for me to eat. It was the waffle that cemented it in my mind: the fact that I had to leave. I had to get out. I could no longer stand it. I could not finish that waffle, just as I could not finish the first one. So I left a tiny square of it on my plate, that tiny piece in a pool of syrup like blood.

The end.