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Jun 10, 2019 13:00:04

Part 3

by @danielmiller PATRON | 380 words | 10πŸ”₯ | 248πŸ’Œ

Daniel Miller

Current day streak: 10πŸ”₯
Total posts: 248πŸ’Œ
Total words: 67900 (271 pages πŸ“„)

Imagine puberty with not just the pizza face and the locker room dick comparison, but another, literally infinitely darker reality creeping up through your insides and out your pores and onto your tongue. Imagine weird rumblings in your tummy, you've just outgrown your Winnie the Pooh books, and you're climbing the fridge, plunging your arm into the freezer for some of the round roast your mom bought last week, leaving it on the windowsill in your second-story bedroom, having strange breeds of cats and rodents visiting you while it thaws, you hissing--hissing at them, scaring them away--and then slobbering down the meat as soon as it is no longer a chunk of ice.

And never knowing why the fuck you are doing this.

Not knowing why you're sticking your hands down your pants every night is so not a big deal, is so easy to figure out compared to that.

Imagine your first girlfriend ever being a complete, violent vegetarian. Super progressive for 1963. You meet, drink from seniors' flasks, head home on the bus provided after the homecoming dance, and decide to start going steady that night. The next day you wake with ecstatic electricity coming from your midsection that only a freshly pubic thirteen-year-old can appreciate.

Your first official date is that night. She doesn't understand your choice in entrΓ©e. Extra-rare double cheeseburger? She asks about your choice and the worst part is you have no answer, you really don't know why the fuck you always order the extra-rare double cheeseburger. You just always do. Just as the conversation starts to turn and you think you might escape this little circumstance--as if any thirteen-year-old relationship of eighteen hours escapes any circumstance--the food comes, and you don't just inhale, you slurp down your cheeseburger, leaving most of the bun and vegetables in a ruined heap on the plate, which you also lick free of any remaining beef juices before returning to the reality of your first date sitting across the table from you in shock and disbelief, having not even touched her Portobello mushroom in the fifteen-point-two seconds it took you to drink your burger. She places her napkin over her mouth, rises, and exits stage left.

Not to return, just in case you needed some clarification on that.

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