eleven.

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I sat beside the tree, 

for another meeting with Corey. 

"I have an idea Brooklyn." 

He began. 

"You should have a food journal. 

You'd write what you ate.  

What you threw up. 

That sort of thing, 

I think it would help a lot." 

I sat there thinking of the idea. 

"I bought you a little notebook for it." 

He smirked pulling out a little book, 

from Typo, 

with a little cupcake on the front. 

I smiled and he smirked too. 

"Thank you."

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