Just think of him earlier this evening--sitting. Alone. Possibly in his limited edition Trotsky pajamas. Fork in the steady hand. The other hand nervously fidgety and taking turns between a glass of vodka and a cigarette. In the presence of his taxpayer birthday gift in the form of cake, he wrestled with the symbolism upon how that cake was red velvet slathered in vanilla butter cream icing. Then he blew out the candles. It never crossed his mind that his is vanity.
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