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I have a pretty active nightlife. Occasionally, I find myself performing sultry tunes in a smoky lounge, or feverishly dancing with handsome men under the flashy lights of a discotheque, but these things don’t happen as often as I’d like. More often than not, I’m desperate. Desperately trying to save my children from a catastrophe, desperately searching for a clean, private stall in a public restroom, or having conversations with dead people, desperately trying to convey things I wish I’d said while they were still living.
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