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Columnist Billy Manes sends in the clowns for columnist Billy Manes. No Joke

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I am a skin sock, a body bag, a frozen chicken breast with the tooth-cracking crisp of microwaved edges tonight, and it's getting me nowhere

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"You weren't supposed to find out about this,"

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This is the lesbian breaking point

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This will end badly. When I was a little girl, the heights of a lip-glossed boredom escape via the binary rule book of "truth or dare" would send endorphins rushing to wrinkly

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You know what term I miss?" Eddie's purse of a mouth empties out onto the floor as he swoops into the screaming puppies of my living room

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There's a palpable panic as I slip past the polyester static in the pants of my periwinkle leisure suit, a sense of poorly fashioned costume exhibitionism

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If this particular wrung-out rag of a Monday night were something more than a reverse howl of sleep apnea

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It's gray outside. Blustery billows of dank fat-man breath blow down from the sky and up pleated man-skirts, chilling freckles

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Now that all of the teacups have followed their flying saucers from the cupboard to the shattering floor

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‘You guys need to have babies!'

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It's like a candy-coated war zone. The stuttering gridlock of westbound I-4 traffic the Monday after Christmas hiccups in tryptophan-laced

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Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle go the lights attached to wires attached to plugs wedged into drywall sockets, and the process of illumination

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There are things whizzing around — misshapen puzzle pieces from old grandma Milton Bradley bridge portraits never completed

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