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“This is difficult to write because some days I just don’t have the energy or mental capacity to dredge up shit I don’t want to/can’t remember. If forced, I can surface your face in my mind’s eye. Gun to my head, I might be able to remember making out with you on a sofa in your mother’s basement. If formally accused, I might admit that I also made out with your older brother on that sofa a year, or more, later. If you asked me why I was with you, the answer is just as likely to be “because I loved you” as it is to be “because I was bored and I thought you were too.” But that doesn’t mean I remember you…”

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