It's my last job. It's the law of averages: miss a detail, feel ill at ease, you plan for the unexpected, but suddenly your luck goes south. Take this job, 46, white male, lives alone in the Bronx--I don't know and I don't care. It's just a job: name, address, ding! Hello; 2 to the chest, 1 to the head. But what if he's gone romantic and has his girl in for lunch? Same price, bad luck all around--2 to her chest, 1 to her head. All I know is that after I leave, no one will ever find me again.
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We lose sleep over it. We sleep better with it. It is (and should be) the furthest thing from a trend and yet it’s the coolest, best, most fulfilling thing out there. LOVE (old love is sweet love)