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I am predestined to kick John Calvin in the balls

Name:
Monica
Birthdate:
16 April 1983
Schools:
They say that clothes make the man and accessories make the woman. Well, they're half right.

Dear Ross,

It's serious business, losing your necklace. symbol totemWhen it happened to me, I tore my apartment to shreds looking for it; it was even less fun to sit in the ruins with my small emergency sewing kit, crudely stitching everything back together. (It's a wonder I got my full deposit back. I'm just not very good with a dark matter needle. And I don't think I remembered all the kinks in the plumbing; it always worked a little... oddly... from then on.) My knees were sore from kneeling and pressing my face into crevices; my throat was rough with sotto voce swearing; and every twenty minutes I patted my hand against my sternum, in case it had decided to come back. When an (expensive) trip revealed that it hadn't even fallen sideways through the Fourth Dimension, I had no choice but to turn to the cereal.

Each week would find me with a new box, ripping open the top and plunging my arm in to the elbow, fishing around for all the world like a ten year-old boy looking for beanie hat coupons. Fragments of cereal would scatter as I pulled my arm out, then resignedly poured myself a bowl for breakfast -- waste not, want not. Monica cereal is hard to get, even for Monicas, and it tastes like crumbled lembas with an injudicious amount of sugar. You never know which box will manifest a necklace, just as wild oysters will never outwardly betray their irritations. Twelve fucking boxes later, there was still nothing. I had utterly exhausted my credit. The Council was going to summon me in a couple of weeks, and my reality headaches were getting worse and worse. I was in deep shit.

And then finally, finally, I found it in my little red bowl, its typical resting place, coiled ungracefully around the stray pennies and looking slightly tarnished and very pleased with itself. It cared nothing for my fluid switches between rage and jubilation, my railing admonishments, nor my last (eventual) return to reason, with final assays at temperate persuasion. I never found out where it went, or why. To be honest, I was too exhausted and relieved to care. I clasped it 'round my neck, closed my eyes, and felt the rightness flood back into me.

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