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Miggles, a close family friend, was there. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on him, but I wouldn't come to understand his trauma until much later, during my early teenage years. Miggles, despite the bizarre incidents like this one, remained close to our family, often taking our dog, Molly, for strolls. The name "Molly" was inspired by a substance that Murray occasionally indulged in. But it was a paradox; for as much as he used it, it was rare to see him genuinely impaired.
As the evening progressed, Murray leaned in, planting a kiss on my forehead, his voice laced with mischief. "If you don't take out the trash," he whispered, "I'll slide two discs into your PS3." It was an odd threat, but in the strange world we inhabited, it held weight.
On that surreal evening, Murray tried to convince me that women were only fit to be homemakers. His words stung, especially since I had experienced life as a woman before. In a fit of anger,
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