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To the restless, the insomniacs, the stressed out, the overwork
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the doom scrollers, the worried, and the board. This is
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for you. Good writing is meant to make you think.
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This is the opposite. Short, funny, and unfortunately true stories
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that have mostly to do with nothing to help you
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turn off your brain and turn on your ram. All
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names have been changed to protect the guilty. These are
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anxiety addicts bedtime stories.
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There was some bad news, and how did Harley deal
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with bad news? Maybe differently than most of us. See,
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Harley grew up in a home with crystals and incense.
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Her mother, Wanda, was responsible for this. Wanda, with her
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long braids and collection of brightly colored moomoos, raised her
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daughter to dance in the woods and talked to butterflies.
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She was impulsive and creative, an artist who read tarot cards,
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and was, as she would so often say, quote unquote,
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tuned into good news. It's easy to say that Harley's
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childhood shaped her into an adult with a slightly different
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understanding of the world than many of her peers. So
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when Harley hung up with her doctor and a not
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great medical diagnosis, our thirty year old heroine immediately logged
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on to Delta's website and booked herself a solo trip
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to Europe. She'd been dreaming of visiting the mountains of Ireland,
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and this prognosis was clearly the universe's way of telling
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her not to procrastinate her adventures. She was raised with
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a lot of confidence in her decisions and this this
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was no exception. That was the correct move, said Wanda,
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who had shown up within minutes of her daughter's phone
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call holding a basketful of herbs and tinctures and a
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rolled up mat covered in plastic spikes. That was good
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for something. She pulled out one amberglassed bottle after another,
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lining them up on the kitchen counter. These were the
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bottles that had cured Harley of everything from bronchitis to
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menstrual cramps over the years. Some people thought Wanda was crazy,
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but not her patience. You'll take six drops of this
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in the morning and again in the afternoon. Don't take
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it before you go to bed, because you'll have dreams
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that you aren't ready for. She stopped her homemade pharmaceutical
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regiment explanation to empty her arms and grab her only
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daughter by the shoulders. She looked into Harley's gray eyes
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and vocalized a prophecy that would indeed be correct. You,
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my darling, my primrose, my phoenix, You're gonna be just fine.
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Harley felt her eyes well with tears. It wasn't that
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her mother's tarot cards always told the truth. It was
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that she knew, deep down where we know things without explanation,
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that her mother was right. She fell into the arms
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of the pechually smelling woman and sobbed until she ran
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out of tears. That afternoon, her mother made her tea
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and soup and massage something absolutely foul smelling on the
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bottoms of her feet. Harley reacted, Mom, that itches. What's
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the base? Wanda was a lot of things, but a
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fan of people critiquing her tinctures was not one of them.
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It's highly distilled. Harley winced from the realization and jumped
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up from the sofa as if it were on fire. Honey,
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I tested it. You should be fine, mom. Vinegar Harley
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ran to the tub to soak her feet in water.
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She'd been allergic all her life. This was not something
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that Wanda had easily accepted. Vinegar was a big part
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of natural healing and Wanda had yet to find the
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perfect substitute. As Harley sat on the cold porcelain edge
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of her bathtub, her feet itching in the water, she
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allowed herself to daydream about her trip. She was going
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to hike through the Dolomites and eat all the pasta
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Italy had to offer. She was going to stop in France, Spain,
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and Portugal. As she dried her feet, she shook her head,
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pulling up her shirt to reveal the medical port on
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the side of her stomach. This is how she would
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kill the cancer. It was also how she would administer
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the benadryl to stop the reaction. Harley said goodbye to
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her mother and got into bed as the medicine began
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to make her woozy. There was an upside to the
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ivy port. Meds hit fast. The daffhen hydromine induced nap
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was not the world's worst idea. Harley awoke the next
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morning feeling refreshed and energized. Maybe that's the key to health,
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an eighteen hour sleep. The weeks leading up to her
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big trip became a blur of work in naps, medicine
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and syringes from the doctor, and herbal remedies and some
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inventive packaging from Wanda, who brought extras as she picked
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up her daughter on the way to the airport. It
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was either Harley's impressive medical team or Wanda's tinctures, or
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an inexplicable combination of both, but Harley felt great. Her
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doctors hadn't been sure about the trip, but her mother
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had and gave her daughter everything she could concoct to
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keep her immune system and her spirits strong. As Wanda
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pulled her daughter in for a deep hug before pulling
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out of the delta unloading zone, she looked her daughter
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square in the face and said, in a voice that
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emerged from somewhere deep and primal, you will meet your
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future husband on this plane. Harley jump back, as if
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she'd felt the shock of a nearby explosion. What my husband?
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Harley had been so deeply focused on her health, her healing,
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and her plans for this epic adventure, that romance had
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been the furthest thing from her mind. In fact, she'd
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sort of forgotten about men in general. But she knew
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her mother, and she knew her mother had seen something.
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Checking in for the flight. Walking through the airport, approaching
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the security line, you would be very, very wrong if
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you thought that Harley could think of anything else but
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the imminent encounter with the man who she would prophetically marry.
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It was the most welcome distraction from the medical situation
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that had hijacked her life for the last three months.
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And maybe that was the point of Wanda's prediction, or
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maybe it was real. It was impossible not to make
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eye contact with every male between the ages of thirty
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and forty in the airport. Harley didn't even mind when
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they caught her staring, because she was certain, but at
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that moment, would make an entertaining story for their future children.
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Sitting in her blue and red seat, she eyed every
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male passenger who stepped onto flight seventeen eighty one with
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the critical eye of a surgeon or a cannibal, depending
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on your perspective. It was bananas. It felt like every
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man who walked through the bowing seven forty seven was
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an attractive dude in her age range. One passed and
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then another. Each time a man walked by her row,
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Harley felt her heart sink a little lower. The plane
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slowly filled up, with people putting their luggage in the
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overhead compartments and settling in for the flight. Harley was
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just about to lose hope when she locked eyes with
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brad Pit. Okay, it wasn't brad Pit, but it might
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as well have been. The chisel jawlined, strong arms and
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boyish charm would have knocked her off her feet if
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she wasn't already sitting down. This was not what Harley
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was expecting. As she tried to close her mouth and
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avert her eyes from the hottest stranger she'd ever seen
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in the flesh, her gaze wandered to the man behind him.
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It was Diego Luna. Okay, it wasn't Diego Luna, but
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it might as well have been with his olive skin,
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dark hair, and smoldering eyes. Harley swears that she felt
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drool escape from the corner of her mouth. There are
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two empty seats in my row, she thought, Holy fucking shit,
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I have two husbands. This was the happiest thought that
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Harley had ever had in her life. In fact, she
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was so overtaken by the dopamine rush that took a
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bit of time for her brain to register that the
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two gorgeous movie star looking men had taken the seats
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in front of her and were now kissing these were
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not Harley's new husbands. Somehow she felt rejected, and she
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was well aware that this was ridiculous. You have to
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keep the faith, Harley told herself as her eyes welled
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with uninvited tears. But the pity party was interrupted by
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a deep, gravelly voice like Sam Elliott smoking a cigar
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on a yacht. You're so lucky to have a row
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to yourself. Harley looked up through a blurry screen of
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her watery eyes, and there he was. Jason Momoa. Okay,
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it was not Jason Momoa, but it could have been.
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How did she not notice the extremely well muscled hunk
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with his long hair messily wound into the perfect buns,
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sitting across the aisle. Damn it, She'd been so focused
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on taking Wanda's words literally that she'd only paid attention
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to the seats next to her. This still counted across
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the one foot aisle. Counted. Oh how Wanda knew how
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to call it? Talk to him, make conversation, she told herself.
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But as is so often the case when one is
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experience the force of unexpected love at first sight, Harley's
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words were not exactly that well thought out. I'm supposed
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to meet my future husband on this flight, she blurted out.
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The moment, however, was not filled with slow romantic music,
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the stopping of time, or a wind machine. Nope, it
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was interrupted by the blonde woman sitting next to Jason Momoa,
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who clasped her hand over his her wedding ring reflecting
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the overhead light, she cleared her throat. Harley pretended to
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be deeply engrossed in the emergency manual, avoiding all eye
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contact with the couple for the remainder of the uneventful flight.
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Eight and a half hours later, throwing her hiking backpack
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onto the cheap hotel bedspread, Harley called her mother before
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she even took off her shoes or washed her hands
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from the long trip. Mom it didn't happen. Wanda first
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insisted on asking her daughter if she remembered to take
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this med and that cleaner port drink water, et cetera,
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et cetera. Yes, Harley had, but that's not why she
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was calling. She wasn't interested in talking to Wanda. She
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wanted to talk to Wanda's vision. It will be on
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the return flight. I swear I know that it will happen,
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And Harley believed her. Okay, The trip was a magical
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whirlwind of all the wonderful things that Harley had dreamed
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were possible. The hikes and clean air felt like they
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somehow cleansed her soul. The food was more delicious than
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she even knew that food could be. She felt healthier
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than she had in months. She was feeling strong and optimistic.
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The two weeks passed with only the occasional thought of
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the plane ride home. In fact, she had almost let
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Mama Wanda's prediction disappear completely from her consciousness. Truly, it
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wasn't until Harley settled onto her pleather seat at the
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gate that she remembered her mother's words, because there he
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was Oscar Isaac, sitting next to the check in desk. Okay,
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it wasn't Oscar Isaac, but it was, by any stretch
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of the imagination, the most attractive man that Harley had
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ever seen in her entire life, including the gay couple
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and the married dude from the previous flight. And he
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looked at her, like really looked at her. Harley panicked.
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She tried to calm herself. I'm gonna go to the bathroom,
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I'm gonna freshen up. She let her long eyelashes drift
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away from his gaze and walked over to the women's room.
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It's happening, It's really really happening, she thought. The flutter
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in her stomach made her port feel tight. The last
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minute public bathroom glow up is a ritual familiar to
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so many women. What's the best that you can do
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with a lukewarm automatic sink, scratchy paper towels, and insulting
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fluorescent lighting. The best is what Harley pulled off. First,
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She emptied her bladder, applying a little lip gloss and
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mascara while still sitting right there on the toilet. Harley
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walked out of the women's room in the Barcelona airport,
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ready to meet the man whom her mother predicted would
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turn out to be her soulmate. With a newfound sense
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of confidence, she strutted over to the man, sat down
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in the neighboring seat, and introduced herself. I'm Peter, said Peter.
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He was even better looking close up. The conversation was
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immediately on fire, like a match and a pile of
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dry timber. It was as if they'd known each other
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for years. Harley's head swirled. This was it, This was
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every Disney movie rom com Jane Austen romance that Harley
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had forced herself to believe would never happen. But it
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was in fact happening, and so was something else. It
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was right when Peter was describing his dreams that Harley
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began to shift uncomfortably in her pleather seat. Something was itching,
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something was burning. Something felt like molten lava was creeping
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up her backside and burning through her skin with the
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force of toxic, bubbling acid. It was her ass. Her
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ass was on fire. Excusing herself from the conversation with
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her future husband with an ounce of grace was a
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feat of olympic proportion. But Harley was a fighter. She
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dashed back into the women's room where she had so
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hastily become this confident version of herself only twenty minutes before,
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and locked herself in the forestall. Only now noticing the
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janitorial staff cleaning the lavatory, she twisted her body like
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a seasoned yogi to take a look at what the
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hell was going on in her backside. It was a
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sight that she hopes she will one day forget, because
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there were welts, huge, angry, red raised welts covering her butt,
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cheeks and the tops of her thighs. She swears that
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they grew larger just while she was looking at them,
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and that's when Harley noticed the smell. It was the
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unmistakable odor of a very specific cleaning product, vinegar. The
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toilet seats were cleaned with vinegar. This seat that she'd
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been sitting on, applying her makeup on, maintaining prolonged contact
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with a few drops of tincture on her feet were
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uncomfortable enough. This was a lot more. In panic mode,
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she pulled the benadryl out of her travel bag and
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injected it directly into the port. It would take twenty
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minutes to work. Hopefully by then she'd be in her
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plane seat. This was going to be a perfectly miserable
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flight experience. What's wrong, Peter asked as she made her
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way back to the gate, dashing to the front of