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My descent into depravity
started with a touch football game. “Touch” meaning
no tackling. And it was touch, until my head met with
Greg Malone’s mouth and split his bottom lip. We both crumpled
to the ground in agony, him more so than me I expect. I cringed
from embarrassment, almost forgetting the pain spreading across
my forehead. It wasn’t everyday you maimed your best friend’s
totally hot, yet completely demented, older brother.
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