I guess it doesn't matter anymore
I’m a newspaper reporter. It isn’t good for the stomach, but it can be good for reflection on those quiet, cool autumn night shifts in the middle of the week when nothing’s on fire and the street crime is of the ignorable, drug-driven, non-fatal kind.
And the circa-1987 florescent lights in the newsroom buzz like sleepy bees, and it’s time to get my baloney sandwich out of the crowded office fridge.
And, because I am not without some guile when it comes to things modern, I slip on my earplugs, find YouTube on my computer and, as the young copy editors make Miley Cyrus jokes, I find...
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