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The Friendly Stranger

I told Dylan that overnight my arm got all crooked rammed beneath my head and pillow, lost proper blood circulation, and went horribly to sleep. “Yuck,” I said, “I hate that. It feels really awful, like when I bonk my funny bone. I flung my arm away like it belonged to someone else but the arm could just be flung only so far. It felt really fucking weird.” “You know what I do when that happens,” said Dylan, and he made a loose encircling gesture with his hand that I was soon to learn was fairly masturbatory. “It’s called ‘The Friendly Stranger,’” said Dylan defensively when he caught my expression. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that,” he added. I gazed silently at Dylan and only God can know all the resignation that my silent gaze contained. The friendly stranger. Shit. What planet is this.

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