I was already done with three paragraphs of what I wish I would never have to type ever again. Let me give you a hint: it was my two weeks' notice. It would have been the second (I assume you remember the first.) Then my gut beckoned. (Was it stubborn hope? Was it the alleged chemical imbalance somewhere? Or was it the unshakable shadow of Derrida whispering not yet, not yet?)
Your move.
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