In the same way that dead puppies are true,
which is to say that shit does happen and Freud
could spend eternity researching the shit
that happened to happen to you.
And I do miss you, in the same way I miss rusty nails in my foot,
which always remind us that life could be worse, but I would swim
bare-ass naked through a pool of those nails before I dealt with you again.
So on a happier note, I will probably never hear your cat-killing
voice again and you will never read this.
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