For Cheerios at 2 AM and Tuesday mornings and Maker’s Mark neat and my grandma and breathing and hope and Idris Elba and fingers and dangly, clinky, chunky bracelets and Leslie Sansone and laughing and generosity, and Incubus and milk baths and money and my sisters and the sounds of coins dropping from the slot machines down on Fremont street, and the beach and walking and trees and Doctor Who and my legs and the universe and my lungs and my car, and Chicago Style Deep Dish pizza and a healthy sense of humor and resilience and my laptop and the color green and the hue black and sunny afternoons with nothing to do but read Slaughterhouse Five again and air fresheners and Friday night at the happy hour spot and my friends and weekends and my life and my voice and coffee cups full of freshly made steaming hot coffee and him, and my bed, and him in my bed and the moon and my hips and hope and my feet and joy and my dreams and chocolate cake and pencils and umbrellas and whitening toothpaste and Bill Cosby and marijuana and crunches and liberty and Princess Ariel and headphones and boys who stare at my boobs instead of my eyes and airplanes and the medulla oblongata and serotonin and county fairs that sell funnel cakes as big as your face and eyelids and gravy and Love and love and love and love and love.

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