Letters from the Left

The last time I committed a radical act, I got a paper cut. The initial zing across my fingertip was nothing compared to the redness and burning the next day. Then there was the tingling and the itching and the trickling pus that annealed like amber in the grooves of my keyboard. I had to pummel that J key just to unstick it, or else change my name to Ennifer.

And the smell—holy fuck! the smell! It made me very self-conscious at dinner parties and salad bars.

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