It all comes crumbling down my face

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To the cafes around this town that have decided it is beyond their capability to butter a bagel, but will hand you a hand-wrapped cube of butter (something that likely took longer than buttering my bagel as requested): You must be curing cancer. How busy are you, really? I see you. You aren't that busy. Your cafe is empty, my bagel is crumbly, neither of us are happy here. Just butter my fucking bagel and we will continue this struggle of a relationship.
—Signed, bitter about butter

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