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I have a chin hair.
It's like a single dandelion which refuses to die no matter how many times it's been plucked from the ground.
And I hate it.
When I had surgery to donate my kidney, I filled out a living will not because I was concerned about life support or how to handle my vegetative state, but to insure that someone in my family would pluck that rogue hair should circumstances leave me unable to do so. I made Darren pinky swear, as I wrote my request into the miscellaneous category of the will, that it would not be the last thing my children ever noticed about me.
"Wow. ...
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