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Joe's Column
The Yenta


   
 

I want to fit. I want to fit and wear snappy clothes and follow the atkins diet and run three miles a day and keep myself well groomed and get a normal job and buy fancy stuff and follow my leaders blindly and just nod my head and walk into the meat grinder with a shiny white smile as my body is crushed into meal for the masses which follow in my footsteps.
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I want to be a prozac junkee and have a few heart attacks and live on social security in a retirement village and go to the clubhouse on friday for a potluck and play cards with old men who smell like mold.
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I want to get shipped-off to a nursing home and shit myself as the doctors add tubes and wires to my body in hope of preserving my suffering for as long as humanly possible.
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I want to regret every decision I have made since I began making decisions and fall asleep each night under my billion-threadcount nordstrom angel-down comforter fearing the day when I make a mistake and lose every material possession that I have worked so hard to secure in order to buffer myself from the world around me.
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I want to die frighened and alone in the middle of the night as nurses attempt to resusitate me with electrical shocks to the heart, filling my veins with synthetic jesus blood.
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I want to be buried in a pretty cemetery with a fountain and trees and footpaths, surrounded by family members who tell each other that I accomplished so much



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