workers' compensation, 1990, erotica, plays, jersey city, jewish blog, rape stories, lohan, fucking, louvin brothers, art director, lingerie, beer,
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He has thin lips, a flat nose. His bristly, curled hair is cut close to his scalp. His wide head seems to just rest, a lead balloon, on his shoulders. His hands are tough and thick with muscle, his arms rounded with tanned skin from driving independent media around in short sleeves. I don't say these things to condemn the man. He isn't ugly. I just wonder if I would see his doughiness as innocence independent media if he wasn't the rapist, his middle-aged independent media bulk as a sign of self-doubt, finding himself in a relationship with my ex-sister-in-law where there was honestly love, but in the middle of families who despised him for simply being there. But he is the rapist. And every thought of him has that taint. The point here is that I did shake hands with the rapist. I have always thought of myself as someone who is above the fray, able to see clearly in any situation. Even though my brother's wife left him and started dating the rapist almost immediately, I have always thought that it was for the best, that sometimes marriages don't work out, that if my ex-sister-in-law really went through that tidal shift in her life perspective, then fine, good sailing, go on your way.
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