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Old Sport The shrill scream of my alarm at eight a.m. pulls me from my warm sheets. Getting up is a challenge. I stay in bed and think of Gatsby and his pretty young women flooding his house night after night. Each of them draped in diamonds that wink under crystal chandeliers. I think of driving away in a shinny Jordan with Daisy Buchanan resting her head against my shoulder. The consistent alarm reminds me that neither Gatsby or Daisy will be bringing breakfast. Where orange juice splashed with champagne would replace the cat shit on the carpet.
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