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I open my right eye to the sun peeking through the blinds. The light’s peaceful beauty is quickly shattered by a throbbing headache pulsing through my whole brain.

Copious empty wine bottles, half-empty glasses and an overfilled ash tray litter every surface of my studio apartment. I smack my lips and clear my throat, desperate for water.

“What day is it?” I mumble, collapsing back onto my pillow.


I shoot up to a seated position with dizzying quickness and wince at the sudden rush. Oh, right—him. The events of the previous night slowly come back to me: the drinking, the flirting, the kissing…the sex. Oh, the sex!

It wasn’t a dream, it was a memory.

–Vivian Fiori, The Menhattan Project

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