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I asked her if she'd like my number as the session ended, and she consented. If I wanted to sit and stare at a wall, I would have stayed home. She told me that the cancer was entwined with her lineage, dating back as far as the eighteenth century; therefore, in numerous fits of emotional rage, her ex husband blamed her for giving the children cancer and left.I flipped open my phone and entered her number as she read it out. Too pained by the loss of her entire family, she moved to the city a few weeks ago and was living on unemployment, unable to continue working at her job due to the crippling depression and panic she suffered as a result of her abandonment.She was always leery of me approaching the unforbiding basement, sometimes to the point of arguing with me about it, but, aside from that, I didn't see any fault in her. One day, she told me she was going to the grocery store.I noted that I wanted some ground beef in order to make hamburgers for dinner.
While doing so, I closed my phone by accident and realized that I never saved her number, so it was lost forever. Either she was incredibly optimistic about life or she was one of the best actors I had ever seen; either way, I was willing to take a shot. It turned out that she had some bad meetings at this particular convention herself, and wanted to take off to do something more fun.
Right off the bat she told me about how she was four days sober from methamphetamine and was looking to settle down with a nice man who didn't look like a walrus. I had thought that these events were age regulated and had different meetings for people in different stages of life.
I spent the next four minutes making general small talk, quite literally fearing for my life. I'm no pervert, but the whole idea of taking her shirt off and seeing two runny eggs nailed to the wall did not appease me.
I had been single for a while, and I was sick and tired of it.
Being 32 and single is no laughing matter; the traumatic experiences of watching your friends get married, have children, and attain the American dream are akin to the hopeless depression of the schizophrenic mental patient.
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Disgusted by the company of my left hand, I decided to go out to one of those speed dating events. Keep in mind, I worked at Burger King, so the best clothes I could afford were some mediocre dress shirts and tattered khaki pants I bought at Wal Mart during a clearance event.