A guy doesn't just arrive on your doorstep one Sunday evening and knocks on the door claiming he's come to piss you off. There has to be a reason. What reason? Why does he want to piss you off?
Don't ask why. Slam the door in his face and barricade yourself in if you want your life to go on as normal. I thought I was being friendly. I'm a liberal kind of guy. I let him in. He was old, quick-witted and unpleasant. I couldn't shift him. He's still here. Embedded in my neck like a tick. And I'm embedded in something soft that requires from me to remain hard. The body of a woman.
You might say, "Count yourself lucky!" In some ways, it's true. I am lucky. The only problem is that I'm not sure if the woman who seems to appreciate my style is Nacifa, the love of my life, or another, much less appetizing one, who's been chasing after me for a while now like an over-zealous undertaker. Her name is death.
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