I tried painting and couldn’t get on. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. Just me and another girl named Krista who turned eighteen and left right about when I got there. I was not even sure whether it was loaded. They trudged along a little hungry, because of the fruitarian refreshments, and mentally very active.
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