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It’s my fourteenth birthday, and my wish is to be someone else.
Okay, maybe not someone else entirely, but certainly someone less like me. For the moment, however, I’m stuck, packed into a booth with the Blooms and Company at Cowboy Clems Chow House, a rustic Western-inspired restaurant, fully loaded with peanut-shell-covered floor and deer-antler-covered walls. It’s a place where the servers wear name tags that read: Hi, I’m Cowpoke (fill in the name).
Twangy music plays loudly in the background.
You are my angellll …