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Day 28: today.

Before he goes to sleep, he means to tell you all that Grendel’s mother has no name because an anonymous eighth-century poet didnt comprehend feminism, that, in terms of critical thinking, the most banal advertisements are really arguments with premises and conclusions, that when a mechanic tells you to bring your car in for a state inspection he really means he has no time nor space available, that when you’re robbed of a television and a cherished half-collection of DVDs, pawn shops will do their best to obstruct progress, that Barnes & Noble is never hiring, ever, that an unseemly amount of mullets wander through the aisles of suburban Wal-mart, and that, when you take your girl out to eat spontaneously, and she has an egg-allergy, ask twice if the appetizer of bread has eggs in it, or if the french fries have eggs in it, or if the bun of your sandwich has eggs in it—because it all does, they all have eggs, and you have to tip your relatively attentive waitress thirty percent because you’d feel like an asshole if you didnt after such a debacle. Now he goes to sleep, still feeling vaguely like an asshole.

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