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     You start the shower and stare woefully at the rumpled and disheveled face peering back at you.  Every morning you do the same thing and every morening the face staring back at you seems a bit more rumpled and disheveled than the day before.  You pull on the corners of your eyes, scrutinizing the crow's feet that seem to dig in a little deeper every day.  Crow's glance out the bathroom door towards the annoying cawing outside, they probably sneak in at night and tapdance on your face.  The pellet gun again sounds like an appealing idea.  You grab your brush and tame the mane framing your face.  A pointless exercise, given the fact that you are climbing into the shower but somehow it makes you feel a little bit better.  You lean in closer to the mirror, examining a small white head that has staked a claim on the edge of your upper lip during your slumber.  You pinch and scratch at it until nothing remains but a much larger irritated red patch, far more noticeable than the tiny whitehead that previously occupied the space.  You slip your robe off your shoulders and step into the steamy shower.  

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