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He said in an email, I can’t read there. I went to last night’s reading and those people are awful. I thought, in response to this, I ought to explain the word “can’t.” Can’t read means he can’t read – is incapable of the very act. But as he can write, I assumed he, in fact, could read but was just unwilling to read in front of those awful people. And I could have suggested that we are all awful, born out of jealousy or to escape it. Some of us, soberly, in quiet, tender conversations, talk about our hurts and frustrations while others keep it closer, hugging their martyrdom behind closed lips and shut eyes. And then, there are those whose total lack of inhibition, brought on by tequila shots and whiskey sours, speak it outright to the world: You are a mother-fucker and so am I. Into this world, we are all born moles and we each suffer through it alone. But all I said to him was okay. Because it was.

Liz Glodek

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