On a winter afternoon in Eugene, Oregon, sometime around 2001, my friend Jessica and I sat in her living room sipping red wine. It was probably only about four in the afternoon but as dark and rainy as Eugene is in winter, we were passing the hours the only way we knew how: glass in hand, talking smack.
Mark, Jessica’s boyfriend, was a room away typing steadily, over the din of our conversation, on a story he was working on. He was used to these sorts of conversations between me and Jessica. So he tapped, tapped, tapped. We yammered on.
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