Me and Rosemary Ahern are sunning together on a remote beach, sipping Mojitos and watching the surf. We are reading out loud to one another from the complete works of Flannery O'Connor. "Pass me the sunscreen," she says. "Publish me," I answer.
No way! Not in this literary fantasty. In fact, she stalked me. Do you actually think a poor writer such as myself could afford plane tickets to a fancy Mojito-serving beach resort?
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No way! Not in this literary fantasty. In fact, she stalked me. Do you actually think a poor writer such as myself could afford plane tickets to a fancy Mojito-serving beach resort?
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