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Nobody believes it was nearly so awful, not even my own mother. They all think I'm exaggerating, to tell a better story. "It couldn't have been that bad," my mother chirps in typical Pollyanna fashion. "Oh yes it could," I answer grimly. "It could too've been that bad." When Clemmy and I broke up, Mrs. Goodbloode could barely restrain her glee, her relief that no little Clement Fours or jennifer esposito Clementines would be springing jennifer esposito from my polluted loins. Clemmy got the story from his father, who looks exactly like Clemmy, only old, jennifer esposito and likes me as men tend to do. Mr. Goodbloode told Clemmy the family manse that day reminded him of the Yale Club during FDR's funeral. "You've got that look in your eyes again," Clemmy says. "That fuck-me beat-me love-me look."
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