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Day of the Butterflies


“I’m not sure they’re ever going to stop where you’re concerned,”

I answered her, looking suddenly quite serious,

“but, yes, lots of them.”

I spoke as if the subject were one owed reverence. I paused, searching for my next words, unsure. I was parsing my thoughts for a way to adequately explain this ridiculous phenomenon occurring in a grown-ass man, a phenomenon far more likely to conjure images of fourteen-year-old girls in pink sneakers with preposterously ‘adult’ names on Twitter typing tear-stained lines of eternal love for some dude called MattDawgNYC six hours after breaking up with DJDeezNutz69 in what surely must have been a scene to rival anything the Kardashians could manage.

I gave up and continued, throwing poetry out the window, instead deciding to embrace my inner sitcom character, an embarrassingly large and genuine slice of my core being.

“I’m sure when I’m 80 you’ll do it to me then, as well… a bunch of geriatric-ass butterflies flopping and fluttering around half-blind and bitching about how much nicer my stomach was back in their day.”

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