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I would have done it for him for free, an errorless letter being in my interest. That was something I did on the side for extra money. I wished he had let me proofread his letter. I was not just funny: I was subatomically hilarious. I had a stellar letter of reference from the owner of Honey, describing my "fun quarky" sense of humor. I was on the ever-present cusp of broke-a-tude. I did not want to work in a gay bar again after leaving Colorado, but I texted Gino once I got to Wisconsin, to see if he needed help, because I needed help myself. A stress outbreak I was trying to get under control. My body was covered in psoriasis lesions. I was a sometimes pleasant, sometimes catty robot behind the bar. Yum! Woof! Arf! Grr! Bears, otters, wolves, pups and their handlers, leather daddies and their boys, and just plain gay guys-I had mingled with and served them all. Its logo was an emoji-esque bear head set on top of a paw with golden honey dripping from it. I worked at a high-volume, destination bear bar when I was in Denver, from where I had just moved a couple weeks ago, to be closer to my mom, who was sick. But I was older, and a much better bartender now. My last stint at the bar did not end well. I tended bar at RUFF'S in my earlier twenties, which were about to be over in the summer. I had moved back to the area after eight years and landed with Diane, my old friend's mom.
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It had a hole in the front bumper, a box of Duraflame logs in the backseat.
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I finished editing a poem and left Diane's house, in Edgerton, for RUFF'S, in Madison, a twenty-five minute drive, in her car.