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May 28, 2007
Seven years told, apartment living with Mom, our girl drinks out of the carton, braid dangled past her waist and a neighbor boy who says they will marry when they are twenty five if they havenít found love by then. Like a shade of blue going out of fashion, she agreed knowing his idea would not last. The carton goes back in the fridge, lips open. She sits with TV. Mom out with another man, some redhead that looks at our girl too long; she knows he wonít be around long. She distresses the good ones, only assholes stick around.