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Day Thirty-Seven.

After losing Aaron 4 I’ve had a bit of a hard time finding my own personal dealer of drugs. And after losing Phil I’ve kinda felt less comfortable about chugging robitussen. Can’t really trust that Klaxxon-Smith shit anymore, you know? And all the medical marijuana clinics have been moved out of Lake Forest and Laguna, so I’ve been kinda screwed there.

Leo stopped by my desk today, however, and left me a note. It said “Mr. Nice Guy” and had a phone number listed. “Gimme a call,” he said, “you know, if you’re either into that shit.”

Either he’s trying to sell me pot or it’s gay blowjobs.

Guess I’ll find out tonight.

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