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Sometimes, I’m too pathetic for words.

Words can call the dead back to life. Words will make Lucifer do your bidding, assuming they’re pretty enough.

Dug up an old draft that never saw the light of scrutinizing eyes from The Summer of Oh Eight.

Think now’s the time to publish it. Open the old wound up. It’s been howling like a rabid pit bull.

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Expresso Stupor

Sweet sixteen, eh?

I beg to differ.

Long story short. Went to Starbucks v. early in the morning w/A. , decided was in the mood for some coffeeventure, and bought two shots of pure, unfiltered black expresso. Not the best idea, especially when the previous night’s hours of slumber tallies to a grand total of one and three quarters. Hence the present nightofthelivingdead state. Stare. Stare. Stare. Blink.

Repeat.

Wha-a-a?

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