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  • You aren’t amazed in the slightest by the sight of a new day.
    The sun hurts your forehead and turns your eyes into orange peels.
    You live close to the shore, and your nostrils tell you that you’ve slept through low tide.
    You don’t want to get up. You don’t want to do anything today but close the blinds and turn the AC on full blast and sleep in blizzard conditions.
    But you can’t because you have your nephew’s baptism.
    And the birds are chirping and today is looking quite beautiful, and the crocuses in your yard will have bloomed by the time you adjust your tie and walk out the door.
    You try to convince yourself that the birds are singing for you, and that the flowers are all blooming for you, the world is requesting your presence.
    The world is saying, “John, you are incredible, and this day is incredible, and the fact that you’re still alive amazes me.”
    You guilt yourself into believing that if you don’t go, your nephew will somehow remember your absence and will one day use it as leverage against you to ask for a huge favor, like bailing him out of jail.
    You pull yourself to your feet and stare at yourself in the mirror and wonder if you’ll ever look like you’ve gotten a full night's rest.
    Without brushing your teeth, you throw on your shirt and pants, and rummage through your underwear drawer for the only tie you own that has five purple Easter eggs on it that grow larger in size as the tie widens.
    You hate this tie, and you hate Easter, and it’s not even Easter yet, but you have no other tie to wear and so you panic and after a few minutes of soft crying into the heel of your hand, you decide not to wear a tie at all.
    You look handsome when you’re done running a glob of gel through your hair.
    But you know your brother will look more handsome than you.
    And his child, your nephew, will be better dressed than you, in a suit that could fit nicely around your foot.
    You are a lot like nobody in your family, and the thought of showing up to a baptism without a pretty woman in a spring dress and wide brimmed hat that you are in love with makes your face pink and for a minute you think about Caitlyn.
    You cut the ends of your banana off and throw them into the garbage before you shove it into your mouth. You do this every time, ever since you read that article in the Times about spiders laying eggs in banana bunches and people finding spider eggs in their bananas after purchasing them at local grocery stores.
    You decide to call Caitlyn; you hope she picks up so you can ask her to be your date.
    You will not mention your recent break up, or the fact that you’ve slept with a few lonely women from the bar, and you’ll ask to pick her up at 10:30 with a smile in your voice, one you aren’t sure if you are faking or not.
    Caitlyn doesn’t pick up the phone, and you call a second time, but no response.
    So you light a cigarette outside and look up at the sky for a while and try to convince yourself it’s better off that she didn’t pick up and that you’re glad actually.
    The sun is big today and you are saddened by the fact that you don’t know its circumference or surface temperature. But you bet your brother does, and maybe even your tiny nephew who hasn’t been on the planet for more than three months.
    And you know for certain that Caitlyn is not going to call back. Not today, not ever, and your mind isn’t bothered by this but your body is.
    It misses her glossy nut-brown curls and the dimples in her butt and her girlish torso.
    You are so clearly hurt by the thought of her that it makes you want to vomit on the spring flowers, and the spring birds, and maybe even spring itself, you’d like to vomit all over the dewy earth right now in this moment.
    But there’s nothing in your stomach but banana, and you wonder if your nephew’s first word will be “banana”, until you physically count the syllables on your fingers and realize after that it’ll probably be “dad”.
    You notice a small anthill by the porch steps that wasn’t there yesterday or at least you don’t think it was there yesterday and you wonder if ants have girlfriends and if so how do they keep their relationships sexy?
    You wish Caitlyn were the size of an ant so you could crush her like she did you, along with all the other tiny ant bastards that you know she fucked.
    And the world would keep spinning, as it does, and you think maybe only then would you feel like it’s no big deal.
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