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Dear Diary,

 

So the date went well, other than him dying. It's a pity that he died, or at least that he did so before he could call a taxi and die in in his own bed, or on the way to his bed, or in the taxi! I'm not particular; I just wish he wouldn't have died in my bed.

 

Fortunately I didn't like what's-his-face all that much. Unfortunately he made quite a mess and now I have to find a place to put his body. (Which is a hard thing when you live in a one bed room place without adequate closets. I mean, I can barely fit my shoes in there, far less stash an actual person!) All of which sucks since, after having a nice meal with quite a few cocktails (paid for by what's-his-face!), what I'd like to be doing is nursing my hangover while lying in bed, which I can't do, because my stupid date's stupid heavy body is there, along with quite a bit of blood.

 

I might have some sympathy if this weren't all his fault. The way it happened is this. We went out for a nice dinner. We drank a bit. I suggested we go home. (Note to self – next time propose going to his place!) Dude said sure. I brought him back to my place. We started making out. I asked him if there was anything else he wanted, in a seductive voice that I hoped would get him to propose to me (if a proposal seems out of character for me, don't worry – I'll explain later when I'm less peeved about my evening). He said “eat me” and gestured towards his groin. I licked my lips and leaned down. He slid off his pants. I licked my lips and took a big bite.

 

He screamed, which I figured was half the fun, so I took another bite! Then he went all quiet, and I figured that this was part of the game, too, so I took another bite than another. I was a bit annoyed that he was getting my sheets bloody, but figured that it was worth it if this made him marry me. I kept going at it until my stomach was super full, which wasn't all that long, seeing as I'd had an earlier, Dude-paid-for enormous dinner. (Dinner was great, in case you're wondering. We had crab cakes for appetizers, along with some kind of fruity pseudo-martini – I think it was called a mangotini? I digress. Then we had a bottle of wine with dinner, which was steak and baked potatoes. Then I finished it off with a round of chocolate cake and some delicious port. It was all amazing, but you can see why I was quite full!)

 

To be sure, it was awkward that I couldn't eat much of him, so I apologized, explaining my lack of appetite. If this was what he was into, I'd love to start with it as an appetizer, if you will, next time we met. It would mean that I wouldn't be able to eat much of my free dinner, but maybe we could alternate. One night, I'd eat him (he tasted kind of like rare beef, so it wasn't the worst thing, even if he wasn't quite as good as my steak), the next he'd take me out for something more appetizing. But he just flopped about, ruining my sheets further. Luckily they were old and grotty, anyway, and I had a mattress cover. So it didn't seem that bad at the time. Also, I told myself that if he did any real damage, I'd demand that he replace them, and could always use a tarp next time.

 

Anyhow, after a bit of me talking to him and him getting limper and limper, I started wondering whether maybe something was wrong with Dude. It took a bit of searching, but I found things like “femoral artery” and “maximum amount someone can bleed and live” and “lack of heartbeat” quite illuminating. It turns out Dude was dead.

 

Well, that sucked. But maybe at least he had a well-stocked wallet? Hopefully he thought to put it in a front pocket, because I will not enjoy having to turn him over to get at it.

 

Having a less-than-great day,

 

Nym

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

Dude's wallet unfortunately was in a back pocket, so I got more blood on my sheets. Ick. In it he had a condom (useless – if my internet searches are correct, getting pregnant will only help me in getting that coveted proposal), some loyalty cards (worse than the condom), credit cards (helpful until they know he's dead, if the Internet remains my friend!), and almost no cash. I was disappointed at the last lack. Cash is always handy. Restaurants might decline my credit card, my landlord might refuse to take my checks, and I don't think anyone takes condoms (or loyalty cards) as currency. But everyone likes cash!

 

So Dude had failed me yet again. 0 proposals, 0 cash, not even a good lay, and a horrible mess – that, apparently, is what men are good for. No wonder I've been without one for so long.

 

But now that Dude had proven that he had nothing to offer me, I figured I might as well get rid of him. I tried to hoist his body up, but that only spread the blood around more and really, he's quite heavy.

 

As always, I turned to the Internet for help! I posted, “Hey, peeps! Anyone know of any good ways to get a dead body out of a bed?” then waited for answers.

 

My response was mostly nonsense like, “LOL, u joking?” and “hah hah hah. Very funny.” and “Yeah. Just burn it all down.” and “Wat dead body?” This was not the advice I'm paying $50 a month to Comcast for. I searched for “make Internet give me good answers” but that gave me nothing, either, then followed that up with a search for, “tell Comcast it's useless”, which I found more results for that I could read, but unfortunately did not tell me anything that I was currently unaware of.

 

Finally I Googled, “how do I get a dead body out of my bed”. All that gave me was a bunch of articles about people finding dead bodies in hotel rooms, which, again, isn't in the least bit helpful. I'm sure I wasn't the first person to have this problem! So why was the Internet so useless? (Unless I was the first in which case, score! I always believe in breaking ground in new ways!)

 

Ugh, Internet. You are useless. I'd say that I'd unsubscribe tomorrow, except that without the Internet, I'd have to find a way to entertain myself, and I'm sorry, but books aren't doing it for someone as fantastic as me. So I guessed I'd have to work this out on my own.

 

Sadly,

 

Nym

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

Another day, another annoyance. I checked Reddit again to see whether someone had offered me useful advice on dealing with the body in my bed (which, FWIW, was starting to smell, thanks so much Internet!). Unfortunately all I got were a few more comments along the lines of, “u joking?” and “lol what”. So I went back to my room and decided I had to do something myself about this space stealing mess.

 

I did what I could to bundle Dude up in my sheets and started to drag him (it?) outside to where my unit has a dumpster. Unfortunately, he's pretty heavy, so I couldn't make much progress. Then I realized that my neighbor does wood working and thought that maybe I could borrow something to cut Dude up with.

 

Now that's the kind of clever advice I'd looked to the Internet for! Thanks Internet for not providing what my own mind could given a few days of thought.

 

Anyway, I knocked on the neighbor's door and he answered. I asked, “Hey, can I borrow your saw?”

 

“For what?”

 

I winked. “I have a dead body I need to cut up.”

 

He laughed. “Yeah, sure. Not telling me? I see now that goes.” Then he gave me the saw.

 

I got to work and, as it turns out, the human body has even more blood than Dude bled on my bed. Huh. It's also really hard to cut through. (Movies are pretty unrealistic in just how hard. I mean, getting him into pieces was harder than my worst workouts, and it definitely took a lot of work to make it through the hips. Not a single piece sliced clean off, not even the arms!) But at least this time he didn't wriggle or anything, so I managed to get him into about five sections and had no real problem dragging each of those off to the trash. Don't get me wrong – he was heavy and all – but at least I could carry him this time. (And it was a lot easier than cutting him up.)

 

I returned the saw (you see, I'm a good neighbor!), and my neighbor was all like, “Why is my saw all covered in....” he looked at it as though it would hurt him, which is ridiculous as Dude was already dead, “...red stuff.”

 

“It's blood,” I told him.

 

Neighbor dropped the saw. Huh. I guess I should have cleaned it, since he was nice enough to lend it to me and all.

 

“Yeah.” I felt bad now that he looked so grossed out. “I mean, I did cut up a body.” Which I'd told him, but some people are so forgetful!

 

Neighbor's eyes went wide. “You mean you weren't joking?”

 

I shook my head. “Anyway, thanks for the saw!”

 

Neighbor just closed the door behind me. I guess he was angry about me returning the saw dirty. I'll have to make him cupcakes. People like cupcakes, right?

 

Trying to be neighborly,

 

Nym

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

A few hours later, someone knocked on my door. I opened it and there were a few police officers asking about something someone had said and, honestly, I didn't catch most of it because I was instead thinking about when they'd take off their uniforms and strip for me. One had nice brown hair and some piercingly blue eyes and looked like he put in a lot of time at the gym. I could just imagine his body grinding about while he slid out of that tailored blue uniform...

 

Anyway, my mind was so fixed on that possibility that it was only after they started reading me my rights that I realized they were real police officers and that I wasn't about to get some sexy fun.

 

Ugh. Don't police officers (and firefighters) know that all visits should be sexy visits?

 

I told them that, but they just told me they had a warrant and needed to search my apartment.

 

Now I don't believe in paper (I'm a high tech girl!) or the invasion of privacy, which I told them. But they said something or other about search and seizure and the warrants, and how I really had to let them in. I told them no, but they said they were coming in anyway and actually moved across my doorway.

 

It turns out policemen aren't like vampires. They can come into your house even if you haven't invited them. Huh.

 

Well, I mean, who knows what else they could do? Maybe they could take my computer and leave me without the Internet. Or maybe they'd even read my diary and learn all my secrets (not that I care that much, seeing as I'm letting you read it, but still...I figure you're my friends and would never come into my house uninvited!) Clearly I had to stop them. Since telling them they weren't allowed in obviously didn't work, I figured my only option was to beat them up.

 

I wasn't sure how, seeing as the only martial abilities I have come from watching kung fu movies. But I'd seen a lot of them so I gave myself a running start and then flew into the air, determined to give them a great kung fu kick.

 

As it turns out, I'm pretty bad at kung fu. I, um, went flying through the air with my leg outstretched then landed on the floor nowhere near the police officers. I'm also pretty sure I sprained something. To make things even more humiliating, one of the police officers read me some long bit of legalese then grabbed my arms and wrenched them in front of me before putting on handcuffs.

 

“Young lady, you're going with us,” one of them said.

 

I remarked, “That's pretty cliché, don't you know?”

 

The officer rolled his eyes at me. At me! I wasn't the one who spouted something that cliché.

 

Ugh. Police officers are the worst. I hate them. I'm totally going to exercise some amendment on them as soon as I get the chance and figure out what amendment makes police officers leave me alone.

 

Annoyedly,

 

Nym

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

Anyway, the police officers loaded me into their car, which looked pretty much like any other car, just with bars, so it wasn't that exciting. Haven't they ever heard of customer service? At the very least, I figured I deserved some flashing lights and a siren, but no. Stupid police.

 

The ride to wherever they were taking me was long and as I mentioned, boring, (no sirens or lights, in case you have a short attention span like me and don't remember what I wrote in the paragraph above). So I had time to think and decide what I'd write in my diary as soon as I got the Internet again. I figure that when I again have my computer that I'd tell the story about why I went on a date to begin with, rather than just find the hottest guy at the bar and go home with him, like I usually do.

 

So here it goes. About a year ago, I learned that I could summon endless money from these pieces of plastic called credit cards. I know, you're probably ahead of me, since I guess a lot of people summon money this way, but I was naive back then. I got a lot of them, because they were fun, and pretty, and made people treat me the way a glorious creature like myself deserves to be treated. (Very well, in case you were wondering.) I used them everywhere to buy all kinds of fun! (Drinks for cute guys, which often led to cute guys having fun times with me! Delicious dinners, which were amazing for their own sake, but even better when I got a cute waiter to come home with me! Pretty dresses and make up, which I'm guessing also helped my chances. You see where this is going, maybe?)

 

But then, one day, after many bits of paper that I didn't read arrived in the mail with big red warnings, I could no longer use my magic cards. I was at a restaurant with an especially cute waiter when I was told that my card had been declined. I gave him another, and another, but I guess they were all bad too and, next thing I knew, I'd been thrown out and told never to come back. I wasn't even allowed to finish my drink! I didn't know what had happened. I mean, the cards had worked before!

 

Needless to say, there was only one thing to do – turn to the Internet for help!

 

I won't say all their suggestions were useful. People offered nonsense like getting a job, or talking to lawyers about bankruptcy (what is it with Internet people and foreign words?), or paying off a little at a time. Clearly the Internet had failed me. I was about to abandon it all together when a very clever person posted about how she'd had all her debts paid by her husband.

 

My ears perked up. Well, I guess not ears, since this was a post on Reddit, but my virtual ears and actual eyes went on full alert.

 

I typed back, “Your husband?”

 

“Yeah, he when we got married he paid off my debts as a wedding present. You just need to find a rich guy to marry you. ;)”

 

If that message of hope wasn't enough, that winky-face did me in. Clearly all I had to do was find a guy who could pay my debts. That seemed easy enough. After all, I was young, I was hot, and I could stand being tied down for a few months if it made it so that I could use the plastic cards again.

 

For the next month, I did what I could in bars, since they were my usual haunt. But as soon as I mentioned debt to most guys, they found a way to “go to the bathroom” and not come back, which made things far more depressing than usual. Whether I'm worth paying down the debt of or not, at least I can usually get laid!

 

So I resorted to dating websites. I mean, I trust the Internet for everything else. Why assume that it couldn't also find me a hot, rich husband? (No reason.) So I created a profile on a few dozen of my favorite sites and apps and waited for the likes to roll in.

 

I hadn't thought so many men would want to get married and pay off someone else's debts, but I got at least a dozen messages on the first day! Most were more or less, “Hi” or “hello” or “would u suk this?” So they weren't matrimonial proposals, but it was at least promising that I was getting so much interest on my first day. Besides, I could say hi. I could say hello. I could suck anything. (Or suk. I'm okay with alternative spelling and alternative facts, as long as they pay my bills.)

 

As it turns out, a number of all the guys who messaged me weren't into meeting me. But Dude was, provided, “I pay if U put out, right?”

 

That seemed like the first step on my path to holy matrimony, so I responded with, “Yes!” then met him at the restaurant he selected. It wasn't a church, but baby steps. Baby steps.

 

Reminiscing,

 

Nym

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

It turns out that you're strip searched before being allowed into jail. Does that seem weird? I mean, maybe it's not that weird considering that most prison shows set in women's prisons have lesbian orgies, and a strip show seems like a good first step on the way to that. Still, it wasn't how I was expecting my prison trip to begin.

 

Anyway, a woman (old, kind of pudgy, and clearly desiring a hot young thing like myself), told me to take off my clothes and squat. I did, spreading everything she asked me to spread while thinking that maybe I'd found a new source of revenue.

 

“You want this?” I asked, gyrating a bit while I was down there. I think gay marriage is legal now, so it seemed worth giving her a look just in case she might be able to pay down my debt.

 

“Um, no. You need to get your picture taken,” she said.

 

But I knew she was looking. I mean, why would she even be in this role if she wasn't enjoying it? (Not to mention, the picture bit!) I sure wouldn't stay in any job I hated, or probably any job at all. Remind me to tell you about my jobs later, the stupid ones I used to have.

 

Anyway, she seemed grumpy. Probably she needed a new job. Maybe if I convinced her of that, she'd pay of my debts.

 

Hopefully,

 

Nym

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

I got my picture taken next. I asked about make up, but no one would give me any, so I tried to do the best with what I had. (Which is a lot, but definitely harder without make up!)

 

Then I was sent to a prison cell. The cell wasn't everything I'd hoped for. Somehow, when I'd heard “cell”, I'd thought it would be full of nifty features, like a cell phone, or maybe super lively, like a cell in my body or a terrorist cell (I'm sure those are fun up before everyone commits suicide, right?). It turns out by “cell”, the prison-lady meant a gray concrete block.

 

I hate to be all judge-y, but they really do need to improve customer service around here.

 

Luckily there were some other women in the cell, so I guess we could do woman stuff of some sort. I started trying to remember all the stuff I've ever heard about prison. I mean, I think I remembered something about reading, which is boring, so no, and also finding religion which is even more boring than reading, so definitely not. There was also some stuff about fighting and gangs, which sounded cool. I kind of wondered which side of the gang war I'd be on, but then realized that with only four of us, we were probably all in different gangs and my kung fu kind of sucks, so maybe I'd better hope that a gang war doesn't break out until I learned to do a high kick without falling on my butt.

 

Okay, Nym, think, think! There had to be some kind of fun prison activity that I could excel at!

 

Fortunately one came to mind almost instantly. Lesbian sex!

 

I screamed it aloud, of course, because who wouldn't after having such a grand epiphany? I think the guard just rolled his eyes at me – which is weird because I'd always assumed that straight men were super into lesbian sex. Maybe the officer was gay? Clearly. Hypothesis, conclusion. Oh well, it's not like a lesbian sex orgy would involve a man anyway. Unfortunately my proclamation didn't seem to spur the women into some kind of super hot prison menage – most were just staring at their nails – so I figured it was up to me to get the party started.

 

I looked around the cell, trying to figure out who would be the best candidate. Most were middle aged, a bit worse for the wear, and somewhat on the heavy side – definitely heavier than I preferred, but without the corresponding amazing boobs. But just as I was willing to shift my standards for holy matrimony (or at least a legal marriage that paid the bills, amirite?), I was willing to do what I had to do here to fit into my new environment. (And, let's be honest, spice it up a bit.)

 

So I eyed the most attractive of my two fellow inmates, a curvy (not plump, come on now, this is a fantasy, so we're using the most compelling terms!) woman who was probably about thirty-five. Sure, she looked tired and worn down, and like she mostly just wanted to get out of this place or, failing that, curl up against the wall and sleep. But I was about to show her what being incarcerated was all about!

 

I sidled up next to her. She shifted away. I shifted towards her. She shifted away again. It was like a very slow game of tag. Eventually she asked, “Why you following me?”

 

“To have lesbian sex, duh!” I mean, seriously. She couldn't be that dense, right? Way to prove a stereotype! Not all prisoners are stupid, yours truly being a clear example!

 

“Yeah, I'm not into that,” she said.

 

I reached for her crotch. “Fortunately, I am!”

 

It turns out that seemingly out of shape, middle aged women can pack a pretty mean punch. I suppose half the fun of life is how one learns a new thing every day.

 

Hurting, but still optimistic,

 

Nym

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

Last night wasn't a fun night. It was mostly a curling up on a concrete bench and being cold and uncomfortable all night long kind of night. Why did no one ever tell me that prison sucks?

 

Anyhow, I guess the sun rose and dawn came and, I'm sure I could make up some metaphor about long dark nights of the soul and all that, but I won't. The one good thing about morning is that, someone came for me.

 

“Am I getting out?” I asked.

 

The guard shook his head in an abrupt way that would be disappointing if he were at all cute. (But he wasn't, so who cares that he's neither flirty nor fun?)

 

“Then where am I going?” I asked.

 

The guy didn't say much. He cuffed me and shoved me into a hall, then into a car and so on and so forth until we arrived at a dingy building. There I had to wait for a bit on a rather uncomfortable bench until I was paraded up in front of some guy in an ugly black dress that looked something like a trash bag.

 

There was some talking, that I mostly ignored, about murder and charges and blah, blah, blah, who really cares about that kind of thing? (I mean, I don't, and this was me that they were talking about!) And someone asked me whether I'd killed some guy (Samantha? That doesn't sound like a guy's name, but whatever...), and I said, “Sure, yeah.” And when I was asked why, I said something about how he'd told me to, which made them stop asking me questions.

 

Then there was something about setting up a time for the grand jury, and some other stuff about bail, as well as some stuff about what I did, which of course, I told them I'd done, since lying is a lot of work. Then the process repeated itself in reverse, with me now being taken back to the cell. Ugh. Well, that's what I get for thinking that maybe things were on the upswing!

 

I was just about to give up and see if I could find a way to tunnel my way out of my cell with a spoon (step one, find the spoon. Step two...unsure.), when a different guard all together showed up and said, “Nym Pendragon?” (Not my real name, but more about that later.)

 

“Yes?” I didn't want to get too hopeful, as the guy wasn't especially attractive, so even if he was about to start dancing an strip, I wasn't all that excited.

 

“Someone paid your bail. You're free to go.”

 

I blinked at him for a bit. Paid my...bail? It was such a bewildering string of words that it took me a few seconds to put it all together.

 

Someone paid my bail. Someone knew I was here and...spent money to get me not here any more?

 

I mean, I guess it made sense. People bought me drinks all the time so I'd talk to them, so why not pay my bail so that I could be free to go about and maybe even do more than talk?

 

Yet bail was...a lot, if I remembered correctly. I mean, it was like...thousands. Maybe even hundreds of thousands. You can buy a lot of drinks with that!

 

But then, as I tried to sum up the vast quantity of alcohol that could be purchased for my freedom (swimming pools for!), I found myself getting excited.

 

SOMEONE HAD PAID MY BAIL!

 

SOMEONE SPENT (A LOT) OF MONEY ON ME!

 

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS? I BET THAT IT MEANS I HAVE AN ADMIRER!

 

To be fair, it's probably not all that exciting that I have an admirer, seeing as I'm sure I have thousands, if not millions, so whatever. In fact, probably this random person who loves me from afar has been doing so for years, so this isn't really a change in the state of the universe. In fact, not only is this nothing new, it's really an understatement of the gratitude the world owes me for being alive in it. But this is the first time that I've had an admirer pay my bail, so that's pretty cool, and worth a few caplock squeals.

 

I HAVE AN ADMIRER WHO WAS WILLING (AND ABLE) TO PAY MY BAIL!!!!11111

 

(Exclamation marks and ones also requisite!)

 

I guess I really am as great as I've always suspected. I mean, I kind of knew, but always needed proof to change it from a hypothesis to a law and all that. Not to mention, if this secret admirer can afford bail, they can also probably afford to give me a dream wedding and a fancy car. So it's not just a secret admirer, but a rich secret admirer.

 

Things are looking up, and not just because I'm not currently looking down at the poor people from my lover's private jet! (Although that's soon to happen soon!)

 

Squealing!!!!!1111

 

Nym

 

Dear Diary,

 

Apparently having a (rich) secret admirer doesn't keep you from having to deal with nonsense like criminal trials. That seems like such BS. I mean, why bother being rich if you can't buy your way out of stuff? Clearly money is more over rated than I'd ever imagined. Moving on.

 

But yeah. I got a call about how I needed to show up for court at some day, at some time, about that person who's dead in my apartment (never mind that he wasn't in my apartment any more, so I'd forgotten about him. And even if I couldn't remember him, why does anyone else care?), and do some such, and they can appoint someone if I can't afford to pay, but I can also hire someone and ugh. I hate all this nonsense legalese. I wish I knew who my mystery benefactor was, if for no other reason than that I could ask him to deal with this and let me go off and do funner things, like going out drinking and bringing hot guys home to have fun times with, or just drinking a lot and passing out at the bar.

 

But I don't know who my mystery benefactor is, so I was stuck drinking at home, alone, because it's cheap. Thanks mystery benefactor. When I'm a lonely person with cirrhosis, I'm going to blame you, secret admirer, for not appearing sooner.

 

Not at all judgmental,

 

Nym

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

I came up with an ingenious plan to determine who my mystery benefactor is. I'll ask Google. They know everything.

 

I typed, “who is my secret admirer?” into Google and got back some quizzes and really stupid advice columns about how the person is probably shy and, honestly, I'm not sure after that because I stopped reading. So then I typed in, “who is my mystery benefactor?” and got back some weird stuff about video games.

 

I'd say that was the last time I asked Google anything, except that I need Google, so I already know I won't hold fast to that promise.

 

Okay, so...if Google is failing me, what else might work? I considered people I knew in real life who might want to help me. There were a random string of guys I'd had one night stands with. I guess it could be any of them, but I couldn't remember their faces, far less their names, so it would be hard to contact them to ask them whether they were helping me and, if so, whether they wanted to take me on fancy trips or let me ride in their private jets.

 

Other than that, I guess I had...my landlord? I was pretty sure he hates me, so that was out. There was that one guy, at that office, that I worked for once, but he hated me even more than my landlord, so he, too, was out. Then there was...wow, this was pretty tough, wasn't it? I mean, I've met a lot of people, and in theory, any of them could be madly in love with me (most probably are) and paying my bills (less likely for most of them).

 

I ordered myself to think fast, think fast, how could I meet this mystery person and get him (her?) to pay all my debts and take me nice places?

 

Light bulb on! Clearly this person was seeing me somewhere. Most likely he (she?) was stalking me, watching my every move, and just trying to get close to me. So...all that I needed to do is to go out and see who payid special attention to me!

 

I had no money. But if I found mystery admirer, then that problem was solved! Clearly this called for a trip to the bar!

 

Excited (especially about drinking in public again)!

 

Nym

 

 


AUTHOR Q&A

About me

Vasilia Mutive is a <<redacted - do you think I'm going to tell you my real name?>> who has published several short stories in such publications as Daily Science Fiction, Every Day Fiction, and Penumbra under her real name, <<also redacted - come on, these are my private thoughts! I need to keep them safe from noisy (nosy?) neighbors?>> In addition to "immortal" works of "fiction" such as this, she also writes other stuff. And does things. Like drink at bars and sing karaoke.

Q. Where can readers find out more about you?
A.
If they're that interested, I suppose people can always Internet stalk me. It seems kind of cool to have a stalker, right? (Or maybe very uncool. I forget at what point you're supposed to call the police!)
Q. Which actor/actress would you like to see playing the lead character from this book?
A.
Whoever is the most beautiful (to portray *me* of course!) and sexy to play my secret admirer, since duh, only the best for me!
Q. What books have influenced your life the most?
A.
This is a hard question, seeing as I think that books are for nerds. I think what I read most is Google, followed by Reddit. Do they count? (Ugh...apparently not? Okay...then...) Um, maybe that book I read as a kid. You know, the one with the mouse?

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