Maybe it's the biscotti you ate, but you're feeling brave. The laptop is everything- your work, your portfolio, your creepy collection of pictures you've saved off facebook. You take two steps forward until you're pressed up against the thug. You look up, you say "no."
When you wake up, the first thing you see is small puddle of blood and urine. They're both yours. You reach for the gash across your stomach, but someone tells you not to move.
"You're lucky," they say. "Your high-pitched screams scared that guy away. He left this."
It's your laptop, your baby. Well, just a laptop. You don't really know the first thing about loving a newborn or life in general, so you just invest all your caring and passion into inanimate storage devices.
"Great," you say, the words barely audible with all the blood in your mouth.
"Please don't move or say anything. The ambulance is on the way."
Even as you hold your spleen, feeling your blood spill through your fingers, your mind is focused on one thing: ambulances are expensive. Why'd you go and cancel health insurance? You should have risked it with your Russian landlord. You try to stand up, but stumble under your limp legs, falling back into your blood puddle.
"Please, mister, don't move," the stranger begs. "And do you have any undisclosed blood born pathogens? I won't freak out unless I should freak out."
This isn't about harassment. It's about ethics in cat journalism.
Can you please give Golgura a trophy? How about Tallest Monster? I speak not for Golgura now. He is stepping on us villagers out of anger. In his wisdom he has flattened my son.
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