Missteps and blunders spoiled all my job performances. Even at FoY, I was trapped in a cycle of making do, of my own doing of course. I carried out work obligations with a somewhat empty heart and to all watching eyes that made me a flake. This was a mistaken belief, of course, as had been my rash condemnation of Talon. With my feet cement blocks, I shuffled across the lobby. Get me near a large body of water, I would be shark bait. I stopped at the front desk, leaned a hip on the corner. Ivy Valentine, FoY’s receptionist, was on the phone. Ivy looked like Dolly Parton, only with bigger boobs. Actually, I wasn’t sure her breasts counted as boobs, more like weather balloons. She was saving for a reduction. I tossed in a few bucks each paycheck. It was only fair, as I figured she had somehow ended up with my allotment, too. As I sifted through a stack of junk mail, a foul odor made my nose wrinkle. I spied the source, bacon flavored mints Ivy habitually kept on her desk.
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