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September 17, 2007
She’s snapping her gum, its tart raspberry essence wafting further into space with each word; I fight back nausea. “I shit you not,” she continues. “It was like a goddamn omen or something. I knew I’d get shit on today.” One ear is locked and loaded with a hundred dollar noise reducing bud. The other is perched between my thumb and index finger, itching to wedge itself deep enough into my ear to tickle my cochlea and silence the voices outside my brain for a change. “What sort of legit hearse has a license plate tagged ‘LUKY STIF’?” she says.