Capital Phoenix

I ask Jack what wrong is. Can he quantify it? This is a man whose answers are too specific for pub quiz questions: like the star signs of each of the Spice Girls, how often Matt Damon washes his hands.

Jack says, “I can’t tell you which choice to make, or even label every choice that’s on the table. I can tell you what I want, what I think you want, but then it’s getting into speculation; even Perez Hilton’s not right every single time. And me neither.”

But at church there were such clear rights and wrongs I fell asleep sorry for something, every morning a flu-like guilt squeezing my stomach like a stress-ball in the shape of a heart sure that the pumping action was helping. Then there was only purge, purge, purge.1 in the dark

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