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57 Fifty-Fifty Ball Yesterday, I was cruising along, behind the wheel, listening to that song “Age of Consent” by New Order, and I swear—twenty-five years of my life just up and flew out the window, like a hot dog wrapper. Whole chunks of me are breaking off. The referee blows the halftime whistle. Coach yells, locker room, so I take off my shin guards, go in, but there’s no one there, just me and all these empty lockers filled with the bones of kids I went to grade school with. Coach yells, back on the field. Suck it up. Be a man, but I just feel like wearing lipstick and writing the words god’s slut on my forehead. Why is life this itchy pair of socks I yearn to remove each night, so I can run around naked in someone else’s skin? ...

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