This is not America’s Next Top Best Friend.
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This is not America’s Next Top Best Friend.
January is 31 tiny Januarys in a trench coat trying to buy tickets to the rest of the year.
You pass down suffering, no matter what you do — your DNA was bruised at the edges, mutated threadbare from one too many missed meals, too many impressions where a hand used to be on your upper arm, too many hours left unconsoled.
The scientists tell me I’m a special kind of machine.