Some mornings, I wake up, and although it's been more than fifteen years I've been living here, I have a start of fear, shame, and loathing, as I think "ohmigawd, I moved to Texas". It's the kind of thing you think the morning after a terrible event like a bad car crash, or the death of a family member, or the 2000 election of George Bush, after sleep has mercifully taken away your memory, led you to believe that, perhaps, the dread event was actually a dream, before your full recollection takes you like a bucket of water over the head.
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