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November 19, 2012
I'll be going to his apartment so he can play some of his stuff on the acoustic guitar. "Prepare to be impressed," he texts. I cringe because I know he means it. Already I don't want to go. But I do.

I go. He plays. And sings. I'm impressed with the guitar-playing. But the singing? Is he kidding? From the look on his face, he's not. I want to tell him to focus on instrumentals.

"We should give each other massages," he says a bit later. I see to it that we don't.

I'm out. Half-impressed and fully dressed.

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