Middle

My father and I tour Middle, where children and stepfathers and wives hurriedly exit from their beds. My brother Albert lives in Middle, where people do not wish to live in the semi-rural area next to it. They prefer a suburban dog/cat infestation. While we drive, we see a festival with freaks selling oranges and Captain Jack t-shirts. The freaks—two-faced ladies, hypocritical pornographers, astute stamp collectors, Indonesian spelling bee winners, infrared gamma ray strip teasers who are currently unemployed—say, “you can do your laundry here.” Into their machine I throw my purse, vitamin C pills, and leftover Prozac, which...

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