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Cutting the happy stuff

So when I dragged my withered body to the porch this evening to try to sew my curtains like a poor fool in a dungeon grasping at light after a twelve and half hour long work day, why did I hear a gunshot very, very close to me? Why do I have a feeling it's the guy that moved in shooting at something off his porch? Thanks for that, I hauled it inside immediately. God, what else, really?

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