fifteen: a c i d .

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"that's what you call this weaver's nest? a perm? and if you don't want those mirrors reflecting light from the soon-to-be bald spot, you better stop coloring your hair."

"what was the color again?" i question, surprised at the new relevation, sidetracked.

my.

mistake.

"midnight ebony. you shou—"

"are you coming to the funeral, at least?" i interrupt them, trying to hide the a c i d laced in my words. how can they act so nonchalant about it?

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