Broken inside, thats what she said as she walked out on me, taking my Dean Martin cd's and my vintage green plaid couch. What would I do now? How would I get by? I paced back and forth, wearing a hole in my 80 year old carpet, wondering where the money would come from? but before I could get too comfortable in my worries, something sparkled through the murky window. "Ooh, shiny!" I thought. Dammit. What was I going to do about the pound of coca under the bed! The cops were swarming in the yard like cockroaches. Luckily 'Goodfellas" was on TV, so I did my best Lorraine Bracco impression and started to sniff at that big baggie of white powder. The cops could come for me, but I would be able to talk my way out of anything, at something like 5000 words a minute. I learned how to talk so fast because my father was an auctioneer and his father before him and I guess I've been around auctions so much it just rubbed off on me. When the cops appeared at my doorstep with a fruit cake I was a little confused. The small striped box they carried it in was nothing like the nice homosexual man who accomanpied it. I later felt bad calling him a "fruitcake" the first time we met. It turned out he saved my life more than once after that fateful day. Then again, I'm rather prone to accidents. My friends know to keep me away from open manholes, propped ladders, and yellow gummi bears. I once tripped on a picture of a rock someones had painted on the floor. That was the time I hit my head and saw that irresistible light that brought me to you.

 

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