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He had lived so much of his life for other people, needy people who wanted his insides for their own. He wanted something else to be the center of his life, maybe a nice hill, or a denuded mountain with black marks on it. He wanted that whale to take its fingers and spread his insides apart, to take his organs out and polish them, paint them green, and set them neatly on the mantle of his fireplace. “Send her to the nanny!” He screamed, or maybe not, he lived in an alternate universe where the Earth was a sickly whale, a mammal with fins, that smelled like death and onion rings, the stringy kind, mostly fried dough. “Don’t you want to kiss your daughter on Halloween, she is dressed as the electronic musician Marshmello,” she said or something.
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The only time he tried to change anything about his stupid ass life was when he was hungover. It was all there, on the plush carpeting, in a neat little pile.
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Mac & Cheese with hot dogs from his childhood. He had thrown up four times and it felt like he had not just thrown up the Del Taco he had ordered at 3 AM but the entire collective memory of his stomach. Last night he had drank 50 Bud Lights and brown sugar bourbon while he watched Ghost Adventures in his screening room by himself. Are the LA fires a curse from God? He thought that they were. Adam Levine lay supine staring at the hazy sky, blotted with smoke.