Love Me. That’s An Order.

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The pandemic forces us to wear masks, to hide our God-given mouths and blemishes. And it forces me to text my sister, describing the smell of my mask breath when it smells uniquely horrible:

  • Friday 8:33 PM — “Current mask breath: the General Mills corn snack ‘Bugles.’ I haven’t eaten Bugles in years.”
  • Tuesday 10:50 AM — “Current mask breath: rotten hay.”

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