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January 17, 2012
Oh Dear Lord, 17 and I can't find Skip nowheres in the top of the bucket. The hatch won't give and I don't hear Skip crawlin' around the dining room. He must be holed up in the console, waitin' fer aid. I gotta bust out of here. Skip, you West Point son of a bitch! You combin' your hair in the colors? Stay clear the port! Your comb went bonkers, buddy! you gotta put it down! (I blame myself.) Comb! Comb! You gotta think this through, man! It's me you want! I did it! Comb! It's me! It's me! It'só