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You are the prettiest woman in the neighborhood, and you know it. But I’m nothing. Though I work my ass off, I never get ahead. I don’t have a car or very much money. Yet I’ve been in love with you since the second grade. I die inside every time I talk to you—you with your nose in the air and your license plate that says You Wish—to acknowledge me would shift the planet out of balance. Heaven is close every time I see your straight hair flowing in the wind like straw in a barn on a stormy day; your pouty, full lips, red as apples; your full bosom, not too large and not too small; your tanned, thin legs; the apple butt they rush into; and your teeth that shine like ivory. When I watch you across the street frolicking in your pool, I catch a fever inside, burning like the sun. If you’d cared enough to find out about me you’d know I’m a mental patient, and I can’t wish anymore. Tonight is the night, my love. I’m going to kidnap you and have you for my very own; when it’s dark, when it’s late, at the hour you always come home from work. I’m going to make you consummate our unholy marriage. There’s just one more detail, my dear. I know you’ll scream and squirm, trying to get away—that’s what the rope and duct tape is for—but just to make sure you don’t resist me anymore, I’m going to clinch it. Besides, I’ve always dreamed of having sex with the dead.

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