Confessions of a protein whore

Photo by Mehrshad Rajabi on Unsplash

I knew I shouldn’t be out so late. I had a splitting headache, and the brake lights in front of me were blinding. I was never sure whether the term “red light district” referred to lots of Johns stopping mid-block on the side of the road, which would neatly satisfy both literal and metaphorical interpretations of the phrase. Or…

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