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and i should be happy to know that. that if one day, i found myself a woman in a crumbling theocratic dystopia propped up by a reality television dictator, and i slid shortstop-style into harry’s DMs, i’d say, “save me, save me, you have so much money and my womb doesn’t quite belong to me anymore.” he would wire me no less than $1,000 and ask me where i live. then he would save me. then we would disappear. and maybe, at some point, i would actually find god.