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from see you in hell—suckers

Catherine Paquette

The cat is here. Everything is wrong. Worse, in fact—there is an I-can-no-longer-
breathe-through-my-nose sort of problem. As snot weeps onto feline fur, I imagine
chopped onion. Bleary eyes red. This is not the sort of love I had in mind. In terms of
good or bad, this is very bad. We play mouse at inappropriate distances, and then—back
into that door-closed-room! This is no way to live; this is hell.

Catherine Paquette

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