I know things. Things that people shouldn't know. Does it bother me? A little. But would you have known that by looking at me? No. I keep my unrest to myself, and so should everyone else. It's how the system works. People hear or see things they shouldn't have, they bury it deep inside, nobody hears about it ever again unless that person gets hypnotised or something stupid like that. So why am I blindfolded and hogtied in the back of a car pretending to be unconscious when two federal agents are talking about a murder as if I'm not here?
Candy? This is what passes for currency these days? And while I'm at it, let me ask you something - who wears purple to a funeral that's not for a pimp? All of these are questions more important to the ones I am currently being asked by a bunch of know-nothing dickweeds with more hair than brains (and before you interject, yes, they have crew cuts). Are they solving a murder case or trying to get the first-date chatter out of the way before trying to mount me in the cab-ride back to my place? I've heard more probing questions on The View. So what do I do? I end the pain. I spill my guts, and they spill their guts, except with vomit instead of words, and just as I don't want to eat my words, I'm sure as hell they don't want to eat theirs.
Emptiness. This is what I feel without my little secret. I've had it so long that it was a part of me. Without the constant wrestling between conscience and living a quiet life I am missing something an element of me that I must get back.
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