I have to write a poem for my creative writing class, which I am so far thoroughly disappointed in. Leslie, the instructor, is probably only a few years older than me and has a tattoo of a ink well and quill on the top of her wrist. I want to bite it. Rate My Professor promised she’d be hot. Her legs are, but Leslie is not.

I miss being single. There. I said it. I’m good at not sharing the bed or shaving my legs and peeing with the bathroom door open. When you’re not home, I sleep diagonally and let my hair grow wild and pee with the goddam door open.

Will you take the bed when things end, and if so, where will I sleep?

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