When I wake up with a sweaty crotch and no time to shower I do not fret, but, blessed with a private bathroom, execute the following sequence I’ve devised and by now, perfected: pull the door shut and push in the button lock; lay a folded-over towel on the floor by the sink; pull down pants and shorts and scrub crotch with soapy water; lift towel and rub dry. I go off on my way with an airy gait, cured of crotch itch and beaming beneath my belt.


Wawa offers gratuitous spoons with luxuriantly voluminous hollows, great for long soup slurps but unfit for more viscous fare. Yogurt challenges—the tongue can only reach so far, and jabbing at the bottommost layer, I appear lascivious, an equivalent action to seductive banana consumption.


Upon entering the bathroom I defer the taller urinal to my father though I am larger in stature, a filial gesture, sincere.


I love you brightly and vigorously: a star explodes in silence.

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