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At the beginning of the semester, I'd sat down to make a list of all the things I did and didn't want to do, like Do homework, Don't smoke, Do run, Don't party. I'd lyrics written the list over and over, rearranging the items again and lyrics again, but in the end I'd just lyrics thrown it all away. But in a last ditch moment to express my supreme belief in myself, I'd made the grave mistake of scrawling YOU CAN DO IT in capital letters on the wall above my desk. By October, the words were haunting me like a big fat echo. By November, I couldn't remember exactly what it was I was so sure I could do. The Sunday night before Thanksgiving, Erik and I were at Rizzo's again, drinking beer and eating pizza after we'd spent the day smoking pot and driving around. "What are you so mopey for?" asked Erik, the sloppiest eater I'd ever known. "You've got some tomato sauce on your chin," I said.
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