It's staring at me again. It's looking and wanting to jump within my eyes, shred my brain, and urinate into my skull, then throw some cereal in it, and eat. Why did I bother to get out of bed this morning? Why did I bother joining this organization?
Money was a factor. And cigarettes, they provide cigarettes. Okay, not the mystics themselves, but the little, rat toe scrapers that work for next to nothing for an organization that is not supposed to exist. Those are the ones I bum the most cigarettes from. They're so damn paranoid, making nearly minimum wage for a job where if they slip their lip about their employer, it's complete amnesia city, and they'll most likely end up as a cross-dressing act in Vegas, or if you're luckier, part of the donkey show in Mexico.
What was I thinking about? Oh yes, this thing with red eyes, wanting to use my skin as it's appetizer.
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