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Summer Schedule My ninth gym membership is pristine, unused, perfect for resale. I wore the uniform: shorts, racer-back bra, mesh curved shoes, for a dismal flex in the mirror.
I even bought the paints and a fine plastic pallet for a buck ninety-nine. Three brushes would do for a pack of six card-backed canvasses that need no grand idea to get started.
I followed with 6000 words click ticking on the keys for two eager days. An outline, time line, conga line, two solid chapters of a novel idea that wins the Pulitzer Prize of My Documents.
And now a half-sewn bodice hangs nicely from my shoulders, if I take care not to stick myself with the color-balled pins that have rusted into the fabric.
From a dusty grave of false starts, I do find pride in the installation piece of finely extinguished butts that salute me from the ashtray.
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