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in my heart. Timing being of the essence. I think.


        Sorting a laundry basket for the mailman to pick up, I try to decide where to send it this time. Maybe Miami.


        Rashes. I have rashes that won’t go away. Having them go away is the least of my problems. I worry more about why they are there. Tips. Into the night about how to be who you are. I need that. Group sailing. Seeing the boats alongside a lake in the midwest; owning a marina would keep me busy. Or a fascination for real estate. Group selling. I could sell houses with living rooms that are called great rooms, and with toilets that are old fashioned water closets. Pictures on the wall point to a well arranged grouping. Pairing the grace inherent in a banana next to the charm apparent in one single eye staring at the room with it’s intense blackness in comparison to it’s white. Verve be the texture in the walls, pressed.


        The varicose veins are popping out of my legs. Goddamn creepy crawlers scan my carpeting. Crumpled material made into my dress and the red stains on the bottom of my shoes are not my indications. The broken toaster can’t be fixed. Toasters have gone up so much in price I don’t think I will buy a new one nor convert the old one into a hair dryer. I’ll just let it sit there minding its own business. I can’t help it if it wanted to break down on me. What am I supposed to do with the rotten machine. 


        Yards and yards of material were devoted at one time to saving money through dragging out my old sewing machine. The cost of it all didn’t pay me.


        Yardsticks were free, so I took twenty.


        My name is Susie Maelen, I think.


Palmolive men scrubbed hands loquacious women pondered their fingernails. The rings 


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