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It’s like he’s hitting my G-spot every time he texts me at precisely 6:30 to ask what we’re going to do about dinner. Just knowing that it’s Monday and we always, always have spaghetti on Monday is enough to make me drip buckets. But when I’m waiting in line at the same CVS I go to about eight different times a week, I practically have to clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle my moans as I buy milk and some poster board for one of my daughter’s science projects. — Full Commentary