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And at this moment you think it wouldnt be a bad idea to talk to a cinnamon sister. Just talk, or run your fingers through her hair. But your sister estrogen is oceans away. Some high schoolers exit after you, pushing and shoving, their hands hidden in the sleeves of their Adidas tracksuits. And you think about the girls, probably named Michelle or Brittany estrogen or Jessica, how they are running headlong into this glass wall called love, and estrogen would you warn them, you ask yourself, if one of them happened to ask your opinion. An American suburban teenager asking for an opinion about love from someone whose accent reminds them of a shopkeeper on The Simpsons. Duh! But then this teenager could choose to have her filters turned off. She might listen. Because unfiltered is rough and coarse and ultimately closer to the real thing. You sleep in on Sunday. The hissing and steaming thing behind the counter must still be hissing and steaming, and you wonder where the bugs go in the daytime, when the mornings come shrink-wrapped in California sunshine.
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