Seemingly capable people wearing capes of finest brocade and thinking to themselves, "Is this really where I planned on being today? Haven't I done this before? In a dream perhaps!"
And then she woke up: face down, legs splayed, perpendicular to an obese and under-groomed (but no less loveable) cat. It was Friday and Melissa was bored, broken, boyfriend sleeping on the couch per an esoteric quarrel after the bar late, last, night. Cycling coffee and breakfast options while doing her damndest not to wake our furry friend, she remembered, in that ominous and unabashedly-admonishing moment of clarity -- her purse, was gone. And now, at a surprisingly mature sixteen years-old, Donald Pickens, waiting for the bus to school (a very reputable Charter School mind you) faced a moral quandary on how to return Melissa's missing item, tucked neatly behind a bush as it was thrown the previous evening, and what exactly to do with the half-ounce of cocaine, tucked inside: a sticker of a giraffe wearing roller skates adorning the small, plastic, baggy. The Boyfriend's phone number was written underneath. Donald flashed a crooked smile, biting on the inside of his left cheek as he tended to do in situations of petty megalomania, and dialed the number, slowly, carefully, and here, we, go...
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