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15 The Grudge I watered the grudge, not with the fervent devotion of a nun clutching rosary beads, not with the destructive clockwork of a drunk spilling vodka tumblers on the cactus erupting through his heart, but I watered it, went out there at midnight, with a can of spittle, moon dangling like a lightbulb from its frail cord, and I dripped the dark nourishing fluid into its roots, my face pulsing like a blister as the venom petals bloomed. ...

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