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My parents came over. They asked how I was. Not good, mom. Poor and lonely, dad, like grandpa predicted. Long ago, I promised I'd never lie to them again. So please, Elon, send me a million. Then I could add 'never make them cry' to my promise. They deserve a great surprise.
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Rain outside my window makes me wonder: will my million come falling from the sky? Green hail delivered by spaceship. Shower me rich, Elon, I beg you. Rush through latin poverty, like a Travolta pilot, to this southernmost country of mine. But wait for this storm to pass.
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Today is the peak of a week-long heatwave. I bet Elon is a winter lover, married to sweaters and jackets. A real snow bitch. Great people don't like getting wet and tired at the same time. Summer loving is tough love, resigned love, a sexy chore. Elon, please, send me a million.
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I wonder what kind of food Elon had for New Year's Eve. A sandwich, I guess, as he raced to deliver his cars, late into the last night of 2021. His mom was with him, which proves Tesla and holidays still are a family business. Elon, for the love of your mother, send me a million.
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Finished my leftovers tonight, a whole week after they were served in first place (not yet something "left" then, but a juicy symbol of newness and reset). The remaining cornbread fell to the floor, hard like a rock. Instead of picking it up, I kicked it. Elon, send me a million.
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It's not even lunchtime, but I open the fridge. Just to check that the leftovers are still there. Black eyed peas stare at me. So much cabbage, yet I'm no king. What things will you talk about this year, Elon? Please, send me a million. I'd make more jokes and fewer discourses.
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Pick up empty bottles. Pile up the ashtrays. Reply unanswered messages. Maybe this time will be different. Sky is, indeed, right across the window. It is without clouds, clean, without birds. But I look up. Now I'm facing the ceiling. Elon, please, send me a million.
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