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ToastThere is nothing quite like toast and raspberry jam at three in the morning. The only thing that could make it better would be to have some after a few hours of hot sex, but that doesn't happen very often. Obviously.
So anyway, toast. Put some cheap bread in the toaster. Make sure it's plugged in. Open the fridge – great, the jar's empty. Go to the cupboard – Score! One jar left.
Damn! It's shut tight. Hot water on the lid – still won't budge. The toast's just popped up, finished. It'll be cold by the time I get this jar open. Maybe I should use grape tonight. Ever stubborn, I decide against it.
Grab the first knife I can find – giant meat cleaver. Perfect. Bang jar lid with edge, not really paying attention – Fuck! Big, leaky gash on left hand now. Ignore the pain, turn knife around, keep swinging. Jar lid's all dented and crappy now, but I try it and – success! It finally opens. Quickly find a smaller knife, put cold toast on plate, get to work.
Blood dripping on slightly burnt toast
Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
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