Can I Reduce The Size Of A PDF File Using Adobe Acrobat?

At the County Clerk's Office, Logan Dunne's adopted sister folded our marriage application into a paper airplane and launched it across the room. For the ninth time. I was done. Then she went nuclear. "I just don't think you're good enough for Logan! Like, what are the odds you got pregnant five times and lost every single one? Maybe they weren't even his. Maybe you got rid of them on purpose! You're just a used-up tramp!" The whole lobby turned. Every stare hit like a slap. Even the clerk who'd just been calling Raine out now looked at me like I was trash. I started to snap back, but Logan's mom, Claudia, cut me off. "Raine's only acting out because she can't handle Logan leaving her. She was abandoned as a child. She's suffered enough. Be patient with her. "And you're Logan's fiancée. You should understand. Be the bigger person." I looked at Logan. He was smiling, patting Raine's head like she'd stolen a cookie. "You little troublemaker. Don't do that again." Then he faced the clerk. "Could we get another form? She'll behave this time." I slapped my hand over his. Be the bigger person? Big enough to let her trash my name in public? Big enough to let her wreck our marriage license appointment? Fine. I'd be generous. I'd give Logan back to her. I didn't want him anymore.

By the time I return home from a business trip, it is past midnight. However, my wife, Celeste Beaumont, isn't home. A man's shirt that isn't mine is lying on the couch. When I call her, she tells me that she's working late at the office. "Whose shirt is it on the couch?" I ask, cutting straight to the point. She playfully scolds, "Who else would it be? It's a gift for you, so hurry up and try it on." I skeptically put it on and immediately feel how tight and uncomfortable it is across my shoulders. "This is an L, babe. I've always worn XL." Celeste runs a clothing company. She's the one who handles all my clothes and even uses my body measurements for her menswear line. There's no way she doesn't know my size. The line goes quiet for half a second before she thoughtfully says, "It's from my new menswear collection. "I had pieces custom-made for you and Felix, so I must've grabbed the wrong piece. I'll swap it tomorrow." A beat later, her voice carries a little sob as she continues, "Babe, I've been so exhausted without you these past few days. I've missed you so much…" It's past midnight. As I listen to the undeniable weariness beneath her affectionate, playful words, my heart aches in distress. I can't help chiding myself for overthinking. However, after hanging up, realization hits me. Her brother, Felix Beaumont, and I are about the same build. He's always worn XL.

"What even are the specs on this thing?" My coworker Zack slid it back across the desk, frowning hard. I was still fixing a design draft and barely looked up. "Latest model. Core Ultra 9, RTX 5090, 128 gigs of RAM. Why?" "No shot." Zack shook his head. "I opened Photoshop and it froze for, like, three minutes straight. My busted three-year-old laptop runs better than this. And look." He tapped the bottom panel. "There are screwdriver marks back here. Looks like somebody opened it up and slapped it back together." My chest tightened. I grabbed the laptop and flipped it over. Two fresh scratches sat near the vent. The edges looked like they'd been pried up. I went still. Three months ago, when my cousin borrowed it, the laptop had been perfectly fine.

"Hey, what's your laptop's specs?" My colleague, Dexter Grant, pushes my laptop back to me with a deep frown on his face. I'm busy editing my blueprints, so I respond to him without lifting my head. "It's the latest model. The motherboard is i7 12-Gen, and I have a 64-GB ram installed in it. What's wrong?" "That's impossible!" Dexter shakes his head. "All I did was open Photoshop earlier, and yet the laptop was stuck for three whole minutes! Not even my own laptop, which has lasted me for three years, is as slow as yours! "Also, there are scratch marks left behind by a screwdriver on your laptop's casing. It's clear that someone has cracked your case in the past before installing it back on." My heart sinks at Dexter's observations. I quickly flip over my laptop and take a look at it. It's true that there are two fresh scratches near the laptop's vent. The edge of the casing was slightly jutted upward as well. The sight leaves me shell-shocked. The thing is, my laptop was still fine when my cousin, Joe Clinton, borrowed it from me three months ago…

As I secured the safety rope, I discovered that the metal clip had been replaced with a flimsy plastic ring. My girlfriend, already on the soft ladder, dismissed my concern casually. "Ryan has got a ton of luggage. One clip isn't enough to keep it secure, so I gave him yours. Just wait for the next trip." In desperation, I pointed to the floodwaters surging past my chest. "But I can't swim!" "Cut the drama, okay?" she huffed. "You're a swimming champ. What's the big deal about treading water for a bit? Ryan is related to my boss, and if anything happens to him, my promotion is down the drain. Can't you be reasonable?" "Is his luggage more important than my life?" I shot back, lunging for the ladder. But she kicked me away. "I've checked. The water won't rise too fast. At worst, it'll reach your neck. You'll survive." Refusing to argue further, I watched the floodwaters rage higher and quickly pressed a special emergency beacon on my wrist.

In our house, owning a single unnecessary item is considered shameful. My room is bare, like a model home. It doesn't even have an extra chair. There are always only three sets of clothes in my closet. If I want a new pair of pants, I have to cut up the old pair myself before I can keep the new one. Every time I bring something new home, I have to get rid of something old. That includes my favorite pair of shorts with the little robot prints. Dad calls this "decluttering". He says it prevents the soul from becoming weighed down by objects, keeping it pure and light. Every time I grow a little taller, Mom's frown gets a little deeper. "Eddie, you're taking up too much space," she says. "The house feels crowded because of you." From then on, I do everything I can to make myself smaller. Even when I sleep, I curl myself into the tightest ball I can manage. I just want to take up a little less space. Then one day, a truck driver stops in front of me. He smiles and tells me his truck has a huge cargo compartment, big enough to hold all the things nobody wants anymore. I quietly climb inside. "Mom, Dad… I won't take up any space now. You'll finally be happy, won't you?"