A guy walks up to me. He is the father of a girl I went to high school with. He always makes snide jokes about marijuana when he sees me, as if he has more than a sneaking suspicion that I am an arsonist; a chronic partaker in the burning of tetra hydro cannabinol. It offends me every single time he does it, but I never say anything.
“So, how’re things over in Ithaca?”
“Fuck you Mr. George.”
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