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Fuck.   Fuck.

Py’s gone, and the shit is hitting the fan, and my head is ready to fucking explode from over-indulging, and I’m seriously losing it here, people.

You’d think after nearly 500 years I’d have got this kind of crap down pat, wouldn’t you?   But no – a hundred years of high school and I’ve still learnt jack shit.   After what should have been (and was at the time) the best weekend ever, period, reality has put up its fists and is hitting me relentlessly and repeatedly and joyously in the face, like Edward Norton going all psychotic in Fight Club.   Today could well be the worst day ever.

Forget the whole rising from the grave thing.   Forget about us.   I’m telling you – the most dangerous type of undead is the night of crazy shit that won’t die and keeps coming back to fucking haunt you.   And it started on my doorstep this morning, and it hasn’t stopped since.

Fuck.   The police are here.   Gotta go.




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