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post #187
bio: chris

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first post
that week

Previous Posts
On Sting (and other crap)
Things I Say to My Dad, Because (like myself) He Thinks, Irrationally, He's Going to Die Soon
Why Hipstamatic Was Invented
Happy Mother's Day, Y'all
Black Pear Tree (Guest Post from John Darnielle)

Baby's Got

It's one of those nights, you know. You're out, far away from where you usually are. And you find youself sipping a scotch all alone at a corner table in a karaoke bar. Just like you always seem to.

She walks up to you from a table down the other end of the bar.

"I like your song." She says.

So you follow her back to her seat and join her.

She's got big, droopy eyes that hang down on the side of her face... her face, that's so soft and round... like a ho-ho.

She doesn't say much, and when she does speak she speaks simply and plainly... not like those fancy city folk you know too well. She's too shy. Too scared. Too tentative.

You can tell she's been hurt before. Teased. Bullied.

She tells you she loves ponies, and that one day, when everything's OK again, she'll do nothing but ride the ponies out on the pony farm . Someday, she says. When she doesn't have to worry.

You smile, refreshed at the thought that someone out there still holds out hope. That things aren't all bad always all the time. That there's a pony farm at the end of the rainbow.

She smiles back.

You need a moment to yourself, so you excuse yourself for a moment and head out the front door for a cigarette.

"How lucky I am," you think, "to be here right now."

And as you take your first drag of your smoke, you realize something that you hadn't realized all night.

That girl has Downs Syndrome.

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