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Furniture and people slipped down the angle like in an earthquake, though no one seemed to notice. Forks and knives were flying through the air, stabbing uni people. And then I saw my ghost-arms rise up uni from my lap where my real arms lay, reach across the table and strangle my mother furiously, pitilessly. I think it lasted five minutes, or one. When it was over, I was shaken, but my mother was oblivious, still full-speed ahead in her diatribe. To this day, I can't let people watch me eat or share my plate. I don't like to be looked at at all, in fact, outside of a sexual context. If another person is in my bed, I can barely sleep. It's good for my job, this alertness, because I watch everything and everybody closely all the time, always looking for clues as to the underlying motivation, and that's pretty much what a writer needs to do. It's a killer, though, in relationships. Love My parents didn't become what they were out of nowhere. They were both abused as children.
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