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Grown Men Like a steel wall, a stubborn bull, there's no getting through to you. You have become unhinged, loosened like a bloody tooth. I might as well talk to myself to the walls of shopping malls. I write out fifth anniversary invitations on the kitchen counter imported from Italy while snacking on Doritos. We discuss our eight-hour days over mashed potatoes and meatloaf, and the fact that you're balding, stomach-ulcered, liver-spotted boss still hasn't given you a raise. I wake up to horn blowing traffic and the smoke alarm of bacon burning. You tell me you'll be a little late as you grab your coat and the keys to the hunter green BMW. Suitcase is left behind on the ugly coffee table picked out at a garage sale that I lied and said would look great in the living room between the sofa we make occasional love on and the floor model TV. I hate it when you leave me naked in bed without a kiss goodbye with Donahue and his guests: "Teenage Prostitutes and Their Pimps" as my morning companions.
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