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My name is Annabel. I have big feet. No, bigger than that even.
I am old, I am old. These breasts are flat and fallen now. Well, fallen anyway. Fat and fallen.
I will die of something stupid, surely. Will rot in some out of the way place. Maybe I'll fertilize something worthwhile. A Madrone would be nice. They drop a lot. So there would be a little give and take.
Just think of all the rotten people giving back to the world, blooming it up.
Finally, I'll be quiet. Time to think, at last, and no way to use it.
My beloved database, for which I have been so grateful, once so sharp, chastising, quick, vivid, now melting thoughtlessly into gentle nutrients.
The epitaph my last chance at wit.
Better make it good. Per word it costs more than the New Yorker pays.
Wonder if you can buy a tombstone on eBay. Yep, I found one, in between the old radios and the Halloween decorations. But the shipping was $200.
My child is crying. Time to live again.