He called and I hung up on him; I couldn't stand his words anymore. He gave me permission to shred his stuff, and I bee-lined for the pile as soon as his almost-Southern drawl was out of my ear. I had his shirts in one hand and a knife in the other. I tried to muster the image of him standing in it, his once sweet tongue flinging insensitive
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"Sean aught to get hit by a truck or something"
You don't know the whole thing. You have a one sided story.
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