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First Robin goes for his PlayStation and all his stupid video games. She thinks about the TV but realizes that there is no way she can lift it all the way to the window. His books, his magazines all go. The shoes that he never puts away, too. Then she goes for his closet. Robin is seeing red as she claws at his shit. Throwing with fury, whatever she can find.  “Fucking slime ball. Internet dating behind my back,” she screams at herself, holding back a huge wave of tears. She stands in front of a mound of cotton and synthetic fibers just about as tall as herself. “Robin, listen, nothing happened. Don’t do this. We can work this out.” No form of rationalizing can cut through the iron shield of anger that Robin has lost control of. She walks over to the pyramid of clothes and takes a big scoop with both of her arms and flings it out the window, as far as she possibly can. On her way out she slams the door behind her and storms down the stairs, sobbing. She passes a tree as clothes hang off it like fruit, never to see her boyfriend again.

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