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We’re sitting on her back porch, drinking vodka and Red Bull. Her dirty bare feet rest on an ottoman of three stacked tires. She waves a fly away from her face and says, “I’ve been evaluating myself.”
“Yeah?” I say after a sip of my drink. We’re drinking out of Styrofoam, using a closed toilet as a table (some kind of Duchampian statement, I believe).
“Yeah. I think I might have low self-esteem.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I avoid certain situations because I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself.”
She looks away toward the street. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”