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I think I've finally figured out why I can't recycle: my roommate doesn't like to see how much she drinks.

When I get home after work, she tends to vanish at the sight of me, jerking upright from the couch with wide, deer-in-headlight eyes, something clutched to her chest as she scurries in the opposite direction. Before I can take off my shoes and set my things down, her bedroom door is closing or she's outside in the darkness on the porch where cigarette butts and old cans get hidden away. Some nights, she reappears a minute or two later, talking rapid fire as if I'm the audience for her verbal diarrhea. Some nights, she acts like a prairie dog, her head popping in and out of her room, seemingly waiting for me to settle in my own.

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Originally published at Worldwide Ace.
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