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2002-11-21 | 2:23 p.m.

My fingernails smell rankly organic, and as I type, I think that the smell will likely transfer to my transparent purple keyboard. Which will then smell dirty. I'll get up and wash my hands in a minute, but the deed is done.

Muddy paw prints, dog shit, wet leaves, cracked sewer pipes, waterlogged subfloor, a broken seal at the base of the toilet: Everything in my life is dirty, smudged, muddy, wrecked. Foul. I am Lady Macbeth, washing my hands until the skin cracks along my knuckles.

Nothing does any good. It is my nature.

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