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She had done it.
Finally, she had self sabotaged to her heart's content. The shedded hair lay on her typing hand.
It sucked, but she finally didn't have to pretend she wasn't odd.
The moon shone through her window. It was only half there, but she didn't blame it.
She had awoken from her tormented slumber in dread knowing she had ended something in a way that was kind of premature. Perhaps it didn't matter to her. Perhaps she felt more true to herself being a part of the fiction she had generated to compensate for all of it.
She recalled giving number two the keys to her neurosis and having him not even read past the first sentences. It baffled her - although so much of it was detritus, so much of it was the genuine article.
She sat wearing her black pickleball sleeveless shirt drinking iced water like a champion.
bleeding...
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