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When you have a brush with death, you think, If I pull through this, I’m going to do it all differently. I’m going to say exactly what I think. I’ll be a kind and generous citizen. I won’t be impatient with my son. I won’t shut down to my lover. I’ll learn to play the trumpet. I’ll never waste another minute.
Then you don’t die. And it’s, God, I hate my hair! Would you please pick up your clothes! How long do we have to stand in this fucking line?
-- Susan Miller, My Left Breast
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