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Sometimes I realize something greater out of something seemingly innocuous. Like today, I got a chicken sandwich from McDonald’s and I thought after Ira gave me his pickles that I’d probably like chicken sandwiches from McDonald’s better if they had pickles and that it was strange that it never occurred to me to be more creative and ask for it. Because I take things the way they come, which in part because I’m a natural observer. And I like to try things the way the host chooses to serve them. But then I thought of the times, I got shit at restaurants like the wrong  orders or cold gravy and didn’t speak up. Then I related it to my sexuality. How I didn’t speak up about what I wanted. Just ultra receptive to whatever was given. When I was little mom was so proud of me because one of my friend’s mother told her how she loved it when I came over because I wasn’t picky. How could I be? Her food was bad ass and she always had fruit punch in the fridge. Mom complemented me again and again for not being picky. And boy, did I take that to heart. You can’t say I’m a gold digger. Not picky to a fault. All this came from eating a slice of dill pickle. May I use this 27th year to explore my own voice.

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