I built a memory palace too, except it was made out of resentment. The foundations consisted of the tall poles and wide rafters of my unfulfilled expectations. I placed painful memories from my teens into glass cabinets and returned to look at them as if they were ornaments, while swigging cider. I put my romantic rejections into chests in the attic and mainlined wine while rummaging through them. I would wander the labyrinthine rooms of my vast memory palace of resentments, barefoot in a torn cocktail dress, muttering expletives like a Tasmanian Devil, slugging from the bottle swinging from
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