In other words, it's late as a prom queen's period. And as dark as her future. I'm in a noisy coffee house with my best friend, offering nothing more than moral support (or nuisance) while he works on projects for school. Me, I'm reading a fascinating book about advertising. I should be in bed. Should be. But, luckily for me, one of my roommates needed crack money and pawned the mattress, box-spring and frame of my bed yesterday. I should be pissed. Should be. But it's okay because I've already gotten even. This guy, let's call him Knuckles, has been looking for my crack addicted roommate for at least two months. According to the messages post-it noted to our front door, Well I ran into "Knuckles" at Blockbuster. He was renting a copy of "The Truth about Cats and Dogs," which I found a bit outlandish. I was renting a copy of "Horny Golf Girls III," which was no surprise at all. We both concealed our video choices while I told him were he could find the my roommate, who owed Knuckles at least a cool grand. My roommate is dead.
I am Paul Tefft. And I'm a real handful.
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