Candyce Maglio's blog ::Crossfading careers, pro musician, part time employee, live album, what comes next

Candyce Maglio's blog ::Crossfading careers, pro musician, part time employee, live album, what comes next

Ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｆｅｗ               ｄａｙｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａ               ｂｌｕｒ               ｏｆ               ｓｅｌｆ-ｐｉｔｙ               ａｎｄ               ｓｈｏｃｋ. Ａｌｓｏ               ｅｍｂａｒｒａｓｓｍｅｎｔ,               ｎｏｔ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｆｉｒｅｄ               (ｅｘｃｕｓｅ               ｍｅ,               "ｌａｉｄ               ｏｆｆ")               ｂｕｔ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｏｏ               ｃｌｕｅｌｅｓｓ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｉｔ               ｃｏｍｉｎｇ. Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｓｔｕｐｉｄ               ｅｎｏｕｇｈ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               Ｉ'ｄ               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｄｏｉｎｇ               ｓｏｒｔ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｊｏｂ. Ｈａｄｎ'ｔ'ｔ               Ｉ               ｆｉｘｅｄ               ｃｏｕｎｔｌｅｓｓ               ｃｈａｐｔｅｒｓ? Ｗａｓｎ'ｔ'ｔ               Ｉ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｅ               ｅｖｅｒｙｏｎｅ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｔｏ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｇｒａｍｍａｒ               ｑｕｅｓｔｉｏｎｓ? Ｏｆ               ｃｏｕｒｓｅ,               ｌｏｏｋｉｎｇ               ｂａｃｋ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｌｌ               ｔｏｏ               ｃｌｅａｒ:               ｔｈｅ               ｓｃａｌｉｎｇ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｗｏｒｋｌｏａｄ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｌａｓｔ               ｆｅｗ               ｗｅｅｋｓ;               ｔｈｅ               ｃｌｏｓｅｄ               ｄｏｏｒｓ               ｗｈｅｎｅｖｅｒ               Ｉ               ｗａｌｋｅｄ               ｐａｓｔ               ｔｈｅ               ＶＰ'ｓ               ｏｆｆｉｃｅｓ;               ｔｈｅ               ａｃｃｅｌｅｒａｔｉｏｎ               ｏｆ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ               Ｋｅｌｌｅｒ'ｓ               ｔｒａｉｎｉｎｇ. Ａｈ,               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ               Ｋｅｌｌｅｒ. Ｎｏ               ｗｏｎｄｅｒ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｓｏ               ｎｉｃｅ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ! Ｓｈｅ               ｗａｓ               ｐｒｏｂａｂｌｙ               ｌａｕｇｈｉｎｇ               ｈｅｒ               ａｓｓ               ｏｆｆ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｂａｃｋ,               ｋｎｏｗｉｎｇ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｂｅ               ｐｕｓｈｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               ｏｕｔ               ａｌｌ               ａｌｏｎｇ. Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｓｈｏｃｋｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｏｕｔｒａｇｅｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｕｃｈ               ｔｏ               ｓｅｅ               ｈｅｒ               ｎａｍｅ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｐｈｏｎｅ'ｓ               ｃａｌｌｅｒ               ＩＤ. Ｈｏｗ               ｄａｒｅ               ｓｈｅ               ｃａｌｌ               ｔｏ               ｇｌｏａｔ               ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               Ｏｐｒａｈ               ｍａｒａｔｈｏｎ? Ｗａｓｎ'ｔ'ｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ｅｌｓｅ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｆｆｉｃｅ               ｗｈｏ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｈｅｒ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｐａｐｅｒ               ｃｌｉｐｓ               ｗｅｒｅ? Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ. Ｗｈａｔ,               ｅｘａｃｔｌｙ,               ｈａｄ               Ｉ               ｄｏｎｅ               ｗｒｏｎｇ? Ｎｏ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ               ｈｏｗ               ｍｕｃｈ               Ｉ               ｐｒｅｓｓｅｄ               ｈｅｒ,               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｏｒ               ｖｉａ               ｅｍａｉｌ,               Ｅｌａｉｎｅ               ｒｅｆｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｍｅ. Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ'ｔ               ｇｅｔ               ｉｔ. Ｗｈｙ               ｎｏｔ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｌｅｔ               ｍｅ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｈａｔ               ｍｙ               ｔｒａｎｓｇｒｅｓｓｉｏｎ               ｗａｓ? Ｉ'ｄ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｃｏｍｐｌａｉｎｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｑｕａｌｉｔｙ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｗｏｒｋ. Ｅｖｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｓａｒｃａｓｔｉｃ               ｓｅｎｓｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｕｍｏｒ               ｈａｄ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｓｅｅｍｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｇｅｎｅｒａｌｌｙ               ｗｅｌｌ               ｒｅｇａｒｄｅｄ. Ｉ               ｈａｄｎ'ｔ'ｔ               ｐｉｓｓｅｄ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ               ｏｆｆ,               ｎｏｔ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｏｆ,               ａｎｙｗａｙ. Ｍａｙｂｅ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｉｍｅ               Ｉ               ｆｏｒｇｏｔ               ｔｏ               ｍａｋｅ               ａ               ｆｒｅｓｈ               ｐｏｔ               ｏｆ               ｃｏｆｆｅｅ? Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ａ               ｖａｇｕｅ               ｓｅｎｓｅ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｂｅｉｎｇ               ｒｉｄｉｃｕｌｏｕｓ. Ｏｈ,               ｗｅｌｌ               -               ｔｉｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｗａｔｃｈ               Ｊｕｄｇｅ               Ｊｕｄｙ. Ｔｒａｖｉｓ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｗｏｎｄｅｒｆｕｌ,               ｋｎｏｗｉｎｇ               ｉｎｓｔｉｎｃｔｉｖｅｌｙ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｏ               ｃａｌｌ,               ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｏ               ｔｅｘｔ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｔｏ               ｌｅａｖｅ               ｍｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅｌｌ               ａｌｏｎｅ. Ｉ               ｉｎｓｔａｎｔｌｙ               ｆｏｒｇａｖｅ               ｈｉｍ               ｆｏｒ               ｎｏｔ               ｔｅｌｌｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｏｕｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｇｅｔｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅａｖｅ               ｈｏ               -               ｈｅ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｅａｖｅｓｄｒｏｐｐｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｉｇ               ｂｏｓｓｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｓｕｒｅｌｙ               ｈａｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｓｕｓｐｅｃｔｅｄ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅａｋ. Ｔｈａｔ               ｅｘｐｌａｉｎｅｄ               ｈｉｓ               ｎｅｒｖｏｕｓｎｅｓｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｄａｙ. Ｍｙ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｕｓｕａｌ               ｉｎｃｒｅｄｉｂｌｅ               ｓｅｌｖｅｓ---ｉｎ               ｂｅｔｗｅｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｃｈｏｋｅｄ               ｓｏｂｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｈｏｎｅ               ｍｙ               ｍｏｍ               ｈａｄ               ｒｅｍｉｎｄｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｏｗ               ｂｒｉｌｌｉａｎｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｆａｔｈｅｒ               ｈａｄ               ｉｎｓｉｓｔｅｄ               ｏｎ               ｓｅｎｄｉｎｇ               ｍｏｎｅｙ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               Ｉ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｊｏｂ. Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏｏ               ｄｅｆｅａｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｆｕｓｅ. Ｅｖｅｎ               ｍｙ               8-ｙｅａｒ-ｏｌｄ               ｎｅｐｈｅｗ               Ｄｏｎｎｉｅ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｃｏｍｆｏｒｔ,               ｅｘｐｌａｉｎｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ａｖｅｒａｇｅ               Ａｍｅｒｉｃａｎ               ｃｈａｎｇｅｓ               ｊｏｂｓ               5-7               ｔｉｍｅｓ,               ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｈａｄ               ａｂｏｕｔ               6               ｍｏｒｅ               ｔｏ               ｇｏ. Ｈｅ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｍｅｍｏｒｉｚｉｎｇ               ｓｔａｔｉｓｔｉｃｓ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｈｅ               ｗａｓ               5. Ａｔ               ｌｅａｓｔ               Ｉ               ｃａｍｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｓｔｏｃｋ. Ｙｅａｈ,               ｂｉｇ               ｄｅａｌ. Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｂｒｉｌｌｉａｎｔ               ａｎｄ               ｕｎｅｍｐｌｏｙｅｄ. Ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ,               ｏｎ               Ｔｕｅｓｄａｙ               ｍｏｒｎｉｎｇ,               Ｉ               ｄｒａｇｇｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｏｗｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｇｏｔ               ｄｒｅｓｓｅｄ. Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               2               ｄａｙｓ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｔｏ               ｐｉｃｋ               ｕｐ               ａ               ｇｉｆｔ               ｆｏｒ               Ｄｏｎｎｉｅ. Ｌｕｃｋｉｌｙ,               Ｍａｒｃｙ'ｓ               ｈａｄ               ｐｒｏｃｅｓｓｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎ               ａｎｄ               ｄｅｐｏｓｉｔｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               $129.50-ｐｌｕｓ-ｔａｘ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｐａｔｈｅｔｉｃ               ｃｈｅｃｋｉｎｇ               ａｃｃｏｕｎｔ. Ｉ               ｇｒａｂｂｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｅｂｉｔ               ｃａｒｄ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｗａｌｌｅｔ,               ｐｕｔ               ｏｎ               ｈｅａｄｐｈｏｎｅｓ               ｔｏ               ｓｈｉｅｌｄ               ｍｅ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｎｓｌａｕｇｈｔ               ｏｆ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ               ｍｕｓｉｃ               ｃｅｒｔａｉｎ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｐｌａｙｉｎｇ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｌｌ,               ｂｌａｓｔｅｄ               Ｓｈｅｒｙｌ               Ｃｒｏｗ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               Ｉｐｏｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｌｅｆｔ               ｍｙ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ. Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｐａｉｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｇｉｃ               ｓｅｔ               Ｄｏｎｎｉｅ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｗａｓ               ｈｅａｄｉｎｇ               ｔｏｗａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｍｍｏｔｈ               ｌｉｎｅ               ａｔ               Ｆｒｅｅ               Ｇｉｆｔ-ｗｒａｐ. Ｉ               ｐｉｃｔｕｒｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｖｅｎｔｓ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｆｒｉｄａｙ               ａ               ｈｕｎｄｒｅｄ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｔｉｍｅｓ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ               ａｓ               Ｉ               ｔｒｕｄｇｅｄ               ａｌｏｎｇ. Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｉｔ               ａｌｌ               ｃｌｅａｒｌｙ. Ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ'ｔ               ｓｅｅ,               ｕｎｆｏｒｔｕｎａｔｅｌｙ,               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｐｉｌｌｅｄ               ｗａｔｅｒ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｌｏｏｒ. Ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｔｈｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ,               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｗａｋｉｎｇ               ｕｐ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｈａｒｄ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｂｅｄ,               ｉｎ               ａ               ｒｏｏｍ               ｗｉｔｈ               ＳＥＣＵＲＩＴＹ               ｗｒｉｔｔｅｎ               ｂａｃｋｗａｒｄｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｓｉｄｅ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｇｌａｓｓ               ｄｏｏｒ. "Ｓｔｅｖｅ               ＭｃＱｕｅｅｎ"               ｗａｓ               ｐｏｕｎｄｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｍｙ               ｅａｒｓ               ａｎｄ               ｍｙ               ｌｅｆｔ               ａｎｋｌｅ               ｗａｓ               ｋｉｌｌｉｎｇ               ｍｅ. Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｕｐ. Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ               Ｋｅｌｌｅｒ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｆｒｏｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｍｅ. Ｉ               ｓｔａｒｅｄ               ａｔ               ｈｅｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｍｅ               ｗａｙ               Ｄｏｎｎｉｅ               ｓｔａｒｅｄ               ａｔ               Ｍａｒｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｄｉｓｃｏｖｅｒｙ               Ｃｈａｎｎｅｌ. "Ｉ               ｃａｌｌｅｄ               Ｓｅｃｕｒｉｔｙ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｙｏｕ               ｆａｌｌ. Ａｒｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｏｋａｙ?" Ｉ               ｋｅｐｔ               ｓｔａｒｉｎｇ               ａｔ               ｈｅｒ. Ｔｈｅｎ,               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｏｎ               ｈｅｒ               ｆａｃｅ               Ｉ               ｈａｄｎ'ｔ'ｔ               ｓｅｅｎ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ:               ｌｉｎｅｓ               ａｒｏｕｎｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｅｙｅｓ. "Ｕｈ...ｙｅａｈ,               Ｉ               ｇｕｅｓｓ..." "Ｆｉｎｅ. Ｔｈｅｙ               ｓａｉｄ               ｙｏｕｒ               ａｎｋｌｅ               ｉｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｓｐｒａｉｎｅｄ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ'ｓ               ｇｏｎｎａ               ｂｅ               ｈａｒｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｏ               ｗａｌｋ               ｆｏｒ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｗｈｉｌｅ. Ｉ               ｌｉｖｅ               ａｃｒｏｓｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｔｒｅｅｔ. Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ｃｏｍｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｅ." Ｓｈｅ               ｓａｗ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｏｋ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｆａｃｅ. "Ｓａｍａｎｔｈａ,               Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｒｙｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｔａｌｋ               ｔｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｆｏｒ               ｄａｙｓ               ｎｏｗ. Ｎｏｗ               ｓｈｕｔ               ｕｐ               ａｎｄ               ｌｅａｎ               ｏｎ               ｍｙ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｅｒ. Ｌｅｔ'ｓ               ｇｏ."               Ｈｅｒ               ａｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ               ｗａｓ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｌｉｋｅ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄ:               ｓｍａｌｌ,               ｃｏｚｙ               ａｎｄ               ｌｉｎｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｂｏｏｋｓ. Ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｗｉｄｅｎｅｄ               ａｓ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｓｅｔ               ｏｎ               ａ               ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒ               ｏｎｅ:               ａ               ｙｅａｒｂｏｏｋ               ｌａｂｅｌｅｄ               Ｄａｙｔｏｎ               Ｈｉｇｈ               Ｓｃｈｏｏｌ,               ｃｌａｓｓ               ｏｆ               '94. Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｕｐ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｏｖｅ               ｓｅａｔ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｐｌａｃｅｄ               ｍｅ               ｏｎ               ａｎｄ               ｓｔｕｄｉｅｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｆａｃｅ               ａｇａｉｎ. Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ,               ｗｈａｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｕｎａｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｐｕｔ               ｍｙ               ｆｉｎｇｅｒ               ｏｎ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ:               ｅｘｈａｕｓｔｉｏｎ. Ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｅｌｓｅ               ｔｏｏ,               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｅｌｉｂｅｒａｔｅ               ｗａｙ               ｓｈｅ               ｈｕｎｇ               ｕｐ               ｍｙ               ｃｏａｔ               ａｎｄ               ｐｏｕｒｅｄ               ｔｅａ:               ｄｅｔｅｒｍｉｎａｔｉｏｎ. Ａ               ｋｉｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｔｏｕｇｈｎｅｓｓ               ｂｅｈｉｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ               ｂｌｕｅ               ｅｙｅｓ.                Ｈｅｒ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｆｏｌｌｏｗｅｄ               ｍｉｎｅ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｙｅａｒｂｏｏｋ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｈｅｌｆ               ａｎｄ               ｓｈｅ               ｂｒｏｋｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｉｌｅｎｃｅ. "Ｔｈｅｒｅ               ａｒｅ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｔｈｉｎｇｓ               ｙｏｕ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄ               ｋｎｏｗ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｍｅ."                "Ｉ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ｋｎｏｗ               ａｌｌ               Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｙｏｕ."                "Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｙｏｕ               ｄｏ,               Ｓａｍａｎｔｈａ."                "Ｗｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅｌｌ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               Ｉ               ｋｎｏｗ? Ｔｈａｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｃａｍｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ｍｙ               ｊｏｂ? Ｐｌｅａｓｅ,               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ,               ｙｏｕ               ｇｏｔ               ｗｈａｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｗａｎｔｅｄ,               ｗｈａｔ               ｍｏｒｅ               ｉｓ               ｔｈｅｒｅ?"                "Ｗｅｌｌ,               ｆｏｒ               ｏｎｅ               ｔｈｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｎｅｖｅｒ               ｉｎｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｊｏｂ."                Ｉ               ｓａｉｄ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ.                "Ａｎｄ               ｆｏｒ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｔｈｉｎｇ,               Ｉ               ｕｓｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｏｗｎ               ｍｙ               ｏｗｎ               ｐｕｂｌｉｓｈｉｎｇ               ｃｏｍｐａｎｙ. Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｗｒｉｔｔｅｎ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｂｉｔ,               ｔｏｏ."               Ｈｅｒ               ａｒｍ               ｅｘｔｅｎｄｅｄ               ｔｏｗａｒｄｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅａｒｅｓｔ               ｓｔｕｆｆｅｄ               ｂｏｏｋｓｈｅｌｆ. Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｉｔ:               "ｂｙ               Ｃ. Ｋｅｌｌｅｒ"               ｏｖｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｏｖｅｒ               ａｇａｉｎ               ｏｎ               ｄｏｚｅｎｓ               ｏｆ               ｂｏｏｋ               ｓｐｉｎｅｓ. Ｉ               ｓｔａｒｅｄ               ｕｐ               ａｔ               ｈｅｒ.                "Ｓｏ               Ｉ               ｄｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               ａ               ｂｉｔ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｂｕｓｉｎｅｓｓ. Ｏｈ,               ａｎｄ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｅ               ｗａｙ,               Ｉ'ｍ               ａ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ｏｌｄｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｈｉｎｋ."                Ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｓｈｉｆｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｆａｄｅｄ               ｙｅａｒｂｏｏｋ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｏ               ｈｅｒ               ｆａｃｅ.                "Ｉ'ｍ               34,               Ｓａｍａｎｔｈａ."                "Ｂｕｔ               ｙｏｕ..."                "Ｎｏ,               ＹＯＵ               ａｓｓｕｍｅｄ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｋｉｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｃｏｌｌｅｇｅ. Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｓｅｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｐｏｉｎｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｒｙｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｒｒｅｃｔ               ｙｏｕ."                "Ａｎｄ               ｗｈｙ               ｎｏｔ?"                "Ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｏｂｖｉｏｕｓ               ｙｏｕ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｍｅ. Ｉ               ｆｉｇｕｒｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅｓｓ               ｉｎｔｅｒａｃｔｉｏｎ,               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｔｔｅｒ."                "Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ｎｏｔ..."                "Ｂｕｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｏ               ｄａｍｎｅｄ               ｋｎｏｗｌｅｄｇｅａｂｌｅ,               Ｉ               ａｃｔｕａｌｌｙ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｙｏｕ,"               ｓｈｅ               ｃｏｎｆｅｓｓｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｗｒｙ               ｓｍｉｌｅ. "Ａｎｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｗｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｐｌａｎｎｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｔｏ               ｙｏｕ,               Ｉ               ｆｅｌｔ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｇｕｉｌｔｙ. Ｉ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｗａｎｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｏ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｈａｄ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｄｏ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａｎｙ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ. Ｉ               ｎｅｅｄｅｄ               ａ               ｊｏｂ               ｂａｄ,               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ａｃｃｅｐｔｅｄ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｐｏｓｉｔｉｏｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｕｎｄｅｒｐａｙｉｎｇ               ｍｅ. Ｏｎｅ               ｄａｙ               Ｉ               ｏｖｅｒｈｅａｒｄ               ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ＶＰｓ               ｃｏｎｇｒａｔｕｌａｔｉｎｇ               ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｎｕｓｅｓ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ｆｏｒ               ｒｅｐｌａｃｉｎｇ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｍｕｃｈ-ｈｉｇｈｅｒ               ｓａｌａｒｙ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｍｉｎｅ."                Ｓｈｅ               ｅａｓｅｄ               ｈｅｒｓｅｌｆ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｕｐｈｏｌｓｔｅｒｅｄ               ｃｈａｉｒ               ｏｐｐｏｓｉｔｅ               ｍｅ               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｄ.                "Ｂｕｔ               ｗｈａｔ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               Ｉ               ｄｏ? Ｅｖｅｎ               ｉｆ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｑｕｉｔ,               ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｅｌｉｍｉｎａｔｅ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｐｏｓｉｔｉｏｎ. Ｉ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅｍ               ｓａｙｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ,               'Ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               -               ｔｈｅｒｅ'ｓ               ｎｏ               ｗａｙ               Ｓａｍａｎｔｈａ'ｓ               ｇｏｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｔａｋｅ               ａ               ｐａｙ               ｃｕｔ! Ｗｅｌｌ,               ｓｈｅ'ｓ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｓｔ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｕｓｉｎｅｓｓ               -               ｓｈｅ'ｌｌ               ｆｉｎｄ               ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ               ｊｏｂ               ｓｏｏｎ.'               Ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｄ,               'Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｓｈｅ'ｓ               ｈａｐｐｙ               ｈｅｒｅ               ａｎｙｗａｙ.'"                Ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｎａｒｒｏｗｅｄ,               ｓｅａｒｃｈｉｎｇ               ｆｏｒ               ａｎｓｗｅｒｓ               ｏｎ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ'ｓ               ｆｏｒｅｈｅａｄ.                "Ｗｈｙ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｔｈｅｙ               ｓａｙ               Ｉ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｈａｐｐｙ               ｈｅｒｅ?"                Ｓｈｅ               ｌａｕｇｈｅｄ. "Ｃｏｍｅ               ｏｎ,               Ｓａｍａｎｔｈａ."               Ｈｅｒ               ｌａｕｇｈｔｅｒ               ｓｕｂｓｉｄｉｎｇ,               ｓｈｅ               ｓｔｕｄｉｅｄ               ｍｅ. "Ａｒｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｓａｙｉｎｇ               ｙｏｕ               ｈｏｎｅｓｔｌｙ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｐｅｒｃｅｐｔｉｏｎ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｆｒｏｍ?"                "Ｇｅｅ,               ｙｏｕ               ｓｅｅｍ               ｔｏ               ｈａｖｅ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               ａｎｓｗｅｒｓ               -               ｗｈｙ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｅｎｌｉｇｈｔｅｎ               ｍｅ?"                "Ｗｅｌｌ...ｔｏ               ｓｏｍｅｏｎｅ               ｗｈｏ               ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｙｏｕ,               ｙｏｕ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｏｆｆ               ａｓ...ｓｏｍｅｗｈａｔ...ｏｎ               ｅｄｇｅ."                Ｎｏｗ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ａｎｇｒｙ. Ｗｈａｔ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｄｉｄ               ｓｈｅ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ...                Ｓｈｅ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｓｅｅ               ｍｙ               ｒｅａｃｔｉｏｎ. "Ｈｅｙ,               ｙｏｕ               ａｓｋｅｄ               ｍｅ!"                "Ｌｉｓｔｅｎ,               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ,               Ｉ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ａｐｐｒｅｃｉａｔｅ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｌｉｔｔｌｅ               ａｎａｌｙｓｉｓ. Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｇｅｔ               ｏｆｆ               ｓａｙｉｎｇ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ'ｍ               ｏｎ               ｅｄｇｅ,               ｂｕｔ               ｌｅｔ               ｍｅ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｙｏｕ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ. Ｙｏｕ               ｎｅｅｄ               ｔｏ..."               Ａｌｌ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｓｕｄｄｅｎ               Ｉ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａｔ               ｍｙ               ｈａｎｄｓ. Ｔｈｅｙ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｃｌｅｎｃｈｅｄ. Ｔｈｅ               ｋｎｕｃｋｌｅｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｗｈｉｔｅ.                Ｗｅ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ａｔ               ｅａｃｈ               ｏｔｈｅｒ. Ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｅｘａｃｔ               ｓａｍｅ               ｍｏｍｅｎｔ,               ｗｅ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｓｔａｒｔｅｄ               ｃｒａｃｋｉｎｇ               ｕｐ.                Ｗｅ               ｌａｕｇｈｅｄ               ａｎｄ               ｌａｕｇｈｅｄ,               ｓｕｄｄｅｎｌｙ               ｂｏｎｄｅｄ               ｂｙ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｓｈａｒｅｄ               ｃａｔｈａｒｓｉｓ,               ｔｈｉｓ               ｒｅｌｅａｓｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｏｎｔｈｓ               ｗｏｒｔｈ               ｏｆ               ｔｅｎｓｉｏｎ. Ｗｅ               ｌａｕｇｈｅｄ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｗｏ               ｇｉｒｌｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ,               ｔｒｙｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｍｐｏｓｅ               ｏｕｒｓｅｌｖｅｓ               ｒｅｐｅａｔｅｄｌｙ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｏ               ｄｉｓｓｏｌｖｅ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｈｙｓｔｅｒｉａ               ａｇａｉｎ               ａｎｄ               ａｇａｉｎ. Ｉｔ               ｆｅｌｔ               ａｔ               ｏｎｃｅ               ｂｉｚａｒｒｅ               ａｎｄ               ｓｔｒａｎｇｅｌｙ               ｆｉｔｔｉｎｇ. Ｗｅ               ｌａｕｇｈｅｄ               ｕｎｔｉｌ               ｗｅ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｅｘｈａｕｓｔｅｄ. Ｔｈｅｎ,               Ｉ               ｎｏｔｉｃｅｄ               ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ.                "Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ               ｔｈａｔ?"               Ｉ               ｐｏｉｎｔｅｄ               ａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｄ               ｇａｓｈ               ｏｎ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ'ｓ               ｎｅｃｋ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｗｈｅｒｅ               ｈｅｒ               ｓｉｌｋ               ｓｃａｒｆ               ｈａｄ               ｌｏｏｓｅｎｅｄ.                Ｓｈｅ               ｔｏｏｋ               ａ               ｄｅｅｐ               ｂｒｅａｔｈ               ａｎｄ               ｒｅｓｐｏｎｄｅｄ. "Ｔｈａｔ'ｓ               ａ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ               ｇｉｆｔ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｍｙ               ｓｔｅｐｆａｔｈｅｒ."                "Ｉ'ｍ               ｎｏｔ               ｔａｌｋｉｎｇ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｃａｒｆ."                "Ｎｅｉｔｈｅｒ               ａｍ               Ｉ."                "Ｗｈａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｈｅｌｌ               ａｒｅ               ｙｏｕ..."                "Ｓａｍａｎｔｈａ,               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｓａｉｄ               ｔｈｅｒｅ               ｗａｓ               ａ               ｌｏｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｍｅ,               Ｉ               ｗａｓｎ'ｔ               ｔａｌｋｉｎｇ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｗｈａｔ               ｂｒａｎｄ               ｏｆ               ｌａｕｎｄｒｙ               ｄｅｔｅｒｇｅｎｔ               Ｉ               ｕｓｅ."                "Ｂｕｔ               Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ. Ａｒｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｅｌｌｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               ｔｈａｔ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｏｗｎ               ｓｔｅｐｆａｔｈｅｒ               ＤＩＤ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｔｏ               ｙｏｕ?"                Ｓｈｅ               ｓｍｉｌｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｓａｄｄｅｓｔ               ｓｍｉｌｅ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｅｖｅｒ               ｓｅｅｎ. "Ｏｈ,               Ｓａｍａｎｔｈａ,               ｔｈｉｓ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｅａｓｔ               ｏｆ               ｉｔ,               ｔｒｕｓｔ               ｍｅ."                Ａｎｄ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ               Ｉ               ｃｏｕｌｄ               ｏｐｅｎ               ｍｙ               ｍｏｕｔｈ               ｔｏ               ａｓｋ               ｔｈｅ               ｎｅｘｔ               ｑｕｅｓｔｉｏｎ,               Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｔｈｅ               ａｎｓｗｅｒ.                Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｏｎ,               "Ｍｙ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ               ｉｓ               ｎｏｔ               ｅｘａｃｔｌｙ               ｗｈａｔ               ｙｏｕ'ｄ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｏｎ               ａ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ               ｃａｒｄ."                Ｉ               ｎｏｄｄｅｄ               ｆｏｒ               ｈｅｒ               ｔｏ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅ.                "Ｔｈｅ               ｄａｙ               Ｉ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ               12,               Ｉ               ｐｒｏｍｉｓｅｄ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               ｔｈａｔ               ｂｙ               18,               Ｉ'ｄ               ｂｅ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｔｈａｔ               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｇｏｏｄ."                "Ｗｈｙ?"               Ｉ               ｃｌｏｓｅｄ               ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｓ.                Ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｓ               ｉｆ               ｓｈｅ               ｋｎｅｗ               Ｉ'ｄ               ａｌｒｅａｄｙ               ｆｉｇｕｒｅｄ               ｉｔ               ｏｕｔ. "Ｗｈａｔ               ｈｅ               ｄｉｄ               ｔｏ               ｍｅ               ａｌｌ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ｗａｓ               ｄｉｓｇｕｓｔｉｎｇ,               ｄｅｇｒａｄｉｎｇ,               ａｎｄ               ｔｅｒｒｉｆｙｉｎｇ               -               ｂｕｔ               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｃｏｍｐａｒｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｗｈａｔ               ｍｙ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒ               ｄｉｄ."                "Ｗｈａｔ               ｄｉｄ               ｓｈｅ               ｄｏ?"                "Ｓｈｅ               ｓｔａｙｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｉｍ."                Ｔｗｏ               ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｌａｔｅｒ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ               ａｎｄ               Ｉ               ｓａｔ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａｔ               ｈｅｒ               ａｎｔｉｑｕｅ               ｗｏｏｄｅｎ               ｄｉｎｉｎｇ               ｔａｂｌｅ               ｔｏ               ｅａｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｄｉｎｎｅｒ               ｗｅ'ｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｃｏｏｋｅｄ               ｔｏｇｅｔｈｅｒ. Ｏｎｃｅ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｈｅａｒｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｗｏｒｓｔ,               ｔｈｅ               ｒｅｓｔ               ｈａｄ               ｃｏｍｅ               ｐｏｕｒｉｎｇ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ               -               Ｉ               ｓｅｎｓｅｄ               ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａ               ｌｏｎｇ               ｔｉｍｅ               ｓｉｎｃｅ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｃｏｎｆｉｄｅｄ               ｉｎ               ａｎｙｏｎｅ. Ｉ               ｎｏｗ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔｏｏｄ               ｗｈｙ               ｓｈｅ               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｗｏｒｅ               ｔｈｏｓｅ               ｓｃａｒｖｅｓ,               ａｌｗａｙｓ               ｔｉｅｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｓｏ. Ｒａｔｈｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ａ               ｆａｓｈｉｏｎ               ｓｔａｔｅｍｅｎｔ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ａｎ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔ               ｔｏ               ｈｉｄｅ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｃａｒｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｈｅｒ               ｓｔｅｐｆａｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ａｔｔｅｍｐｔｓ               ｏｎ               ｈｅｒ               ｌｉｆｅ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｔｈｒｅａｔｅｎｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｔｅｌｌ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｓｅｘｕａｌ               ａｂｕｓｅ. Ｓｈｅ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｗｉｔｈ               ａ               ｓｔｒａｎｇｅ               ａｂａｎｄｏｎ. Ｉｔ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ               ａｎｙ               ｍｏｒｅ;               ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ               ｒｅａｌｌｙ               ｍａｔｔｅｒｅｄ               ａｎｙ               ｍｏｒｅ. Ｓｈｅ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｔｈｅ               ｙｅａｒｓ               ｉｔ               ｈａｄ               ｔａｋｅｎ               ｔｏ               ｆｉｎａｌｌｙ               ｇｅｔ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｅ               ｃｏｕｒａｇｅ               ｔｏ               ｔｅｌｌ               ｈｅｒ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｓｈｅ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               ｏｆ               ｈｅｒ               ｍｏｔｈｅｒ'ｓ               ｓｈｏｃｋｉｎｇ,               ｓｏｕｌ-ｃｒｕｓｈｉｎｇ               ｒｅｓｐｏｎｓｅ:               Ｓｈｅ'ｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｃｏｎｔｉｎｕｅｄ               ｗａｓｈｉｎｇ               ｄｉｓｈｅｓ               ａｎｄ               ｓｔａｒｅｄ               ｓｔｒａｉｇｈｔ               ａｈｅａｄ.                Ｏｖｅｒ               ｉｃｅ               ｃｒｅａｍ               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｓｔ               ｃｏｆｆｅｅ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｈａｄ               ｉｎ               ｙｅａｒｓ,               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｍｙ               ｔｕｒｎ               ｔｏ               ｓｐｅａｋ.                "Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ,               Ｉ               ａｍ               ｓｏ               ｓｏｒｒｙ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ               ｊｕｄｇｅｄ               ｙｏｕ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｔｈａｔ. Ｉ'ｄ               ｊｕｓｔ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ａ               ｌｏｔ               ｏｆ               ｓｔｕｆｆ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ..."                "Ｉ               ｃａｎ               ｕｎｄｅｒｓｔａｎｄ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｗａｎｔｉｎｇ               ｔｏ               ｂｅ               ｃａｒｅｆｕｌ. Ｉ'ｖｅ               ｗｏｒｋｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｂａｃｋ-ｓｔａｂｂｅｒｓ               ｔｏｏ."                "Ｙｅａｈ,               ｂｕｔ               ｎｏｗ               Ｉ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｓｏ               ｓｔｕｐｉｄ."                "Ｗｈｙ? Ｍｙ               ｓｔｕｆｆ               ｄｏｅｓｎ'ｔ               ｎｅｇａｔｅ               ｙｏｕｒｓ. Ｙｏｕ'ｖｅ               ｇｏｔ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｒｉｇｈｔ               ｔｏ               ｆｅｅｌ               ａｎｇｒｙ               ａｎｄ               ｐｒｏｔｅｃｔ               ｙｏｕｒｓｅｌｆ. Ａｌｔｈｏｕｇｈ               ｙｏｕ               ｈａｖｅ               ｔｏ               ａｄｍｉｔ,               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ｂｅａｔ               ｙｏｕ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               Ｃｒａｐｐｙ               Ｌｉｆｅ               ｄｅｐａｒｔｍｅｎｔ."               Ｗｅ               ｂｏｔｈ               ｗｅｎｔ               ｈｙｓｔｅｒｉｃａｌ               ｌａｕｇｈｉｎｇ               ａｇａｉｎ.                "Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ,               Ｉ               ｃａｎ'ｔ               ｂｅｌｉｅｖｅ               ｗｈａｔ               ｙｏｕ'ｖｅ               ｂｅｅｎ               ｔｈｒｏｕｇｈ               ａｎｄ               ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ. Ａｎｄ               ｈｅｒｅ               Ｉ               ａｍ,               ｆｅｅｌｉｎｇ               ｓｏｒｒｙ               ｆｏｒ               ｍｙｓｅｌｆ               'ｃａｕｓｅ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄｎ'ｔ               ｇｅｔ               ａ               ｐｒｏｍｏｔｉｏｎ               ｏｒ               ｔｗｏ. Ｉ               ｆｅｅｌ               ｓｏ               ｓｈａｌｌｏｗ!"                "Ｈｅｙ,               ｔｈａｎｋｓ               -               ｂｕｔ               ｙｏｕ'ｄ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｂｅ               ｓｔａｎｄｉｎｇ               ｔｏｏ. Ｗｅ               ｗｏｍａｎ               ｗｒｉｔｅｒｓ               ａｒｅ               ａ               ｓｔｒｏｎｇ               ｌｏｔ."                Ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ               ｊｅｒｋｅｄ               ｕｐ. "Ｗｈａｔ               ｄｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｍｅａｎ?"                "Ｉ               ｄｏｎ'ｔ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｉｆ               ｙｏｕ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ               ｔｈｉｓ,               ｂｕｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｄａｙ               ｙｏｕ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｂａｒｒｅｌｉｎｇ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｈａｌｌ,               ｙｅｌｌｉｎｇ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｃｅｌｌ               ｐｈｏｎｅ,               ａｎｄ               ｗｅ               ｂｕｍｐｅｄ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｅａｃｈ               ｏｔｈｅｒ. Ａ               ｃｏｕｐｌｅ               ｈｏｕｒｓ               ｌａｔｅｒ               Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｗａｌｋｉｎｇ               ｂａｃｋ               ｔｈａｔ               ｓａｍｅ               ｗａｙ               ａｎｄ               ｆｏｕｎｄ               ａｎ               ｏｌｄ               ｎｏｔｅｂｏｏｋ               ｏｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｌｏｏｒ. Ｉ               ｓｗｅａｒ,               Ｉ               ｉｎｉｔｉａｌｌｙ               ｏｐｅｎｅｄ               ｉｔ               ｏｎｌｙ               ｔｏ               ｆｉｎｄ               ａ               ｎａｍｅ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎ               ｉｔ               ｔｏ,               ｂｕｔ               ｔｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｓａｗ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｅｇｉｎｎｉｎｇ               ｏｆ               ａ               ｎｏｖｅｌ. Ｉ               ｋｎｏｗ               Ｉ               ｓｈｏｕｌｄｎ'ｔ               ｈａｖｅ               ｒｅａｄ               ｉｔ               ｗｉｔｈｏｕｔ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｐｅｒｍｉｓｓｉｏｎ,               ｂｕｔ               ｉｔ               ｗａｓ               ｔｏｏ               ｇｏｏｄ               ｔｏ               ｒｅｓｉｓｔ. Ｄｕｒｉｎｇ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｌｕｎｃｈ               ｂｒｅａｋ,               Ｉ               ｐｕｔ               ｔｈｅ               ｂｏｏｋ               ｂａｃｋ               ｏｎ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｄｅｓｋ. Ｇｏｏｄ               ｔｈｉｎｇ               Ｉ               ｄｉｄ               ｆｉｎｄ               ｉｔ,               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｗｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｄｒｅｗ               ｙｏｕｒ               ｎａｍｅ               ｆｏｒ               ｔｈｅ               ｏｆｆｉｃｅ               Ｓｅｃｒｅｔ               Ｓａｎｔａ,               Ｉ               ｎｏｗ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｗｈａｔ               ｔｏ               ｇｅｔ               ｙｏｕ."                Ｉ               ｗａｓ               ｓｈｏｃｋｅｄ               ｙｅｔ               ａｇａｉｎ. "Ｙｏｕ               ｍｅａｎ               ｔｈａｔ               ｂｅａｕｔｉｆｕｌ               ｌｅａｔｈｅｒ               ｊｏｕｒｎａｌ               ｗａｓ               ｆｒｏｍ               ｙｏｕ               ?"                Ｓｈｅ               ｓｍｉｌｅｄ               ａｔ               ｍｅ. "Ｉ               ｋｎｅｗ               ｔｈａｔ               ｍｅｓｓａｇｅ               Ｉ               ｗｒｏｔｅ               ｗｏｕｌｄ               ｄｒｉｖｅ               ｙｏｕ               ｃｒａｚｙ."                Ｉ               ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒｅｄ               ｔｈｅ               ｇｏｒｇｅｏｕｓ               ｗｒｉｔｉｎｇ               ｔａｂｌｅｔ               Ｉ'ｄ               ｒｅｃｅｉｖｅｄ               ａ               ｆｅｗ               ｄａｙｓ               ｂｅｆｏｒｅ. Ｔｕｃｋｅｄ               ｎｅａｔｌｙ               ｉｎｓｉｄｅ               ｈａｄ               ｂｅｅｎ               ａ               ｓｍａｌｌ               ｃａｒｄ               ｅｍｂｌａｚｏｎｅｄ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｔｈｅ               ｍｅｓｓａｇｅ:               "Ｙｏｕ               ａｒｅ               ａ               ｇｒｅａｔ               ｗｒｉｔｅｒ. Ｎｏｗ               ｗｒｉｔｅ!"                "Ｗｈａｔ'ｓ               ｔｈｅ               ｍａｔｔｅｒ?"               Ｓｈｅ               ｓａｗ               ｍｙ               ｅｙｅｓ               ｓｔａｒｔ               ｔｏ               ｔｅａｒ               ｕｐ.                "Ｎｏｔｈｉｎｇ. Ｓｈｕｔ               ｕｐ."               Ｉ               ｆｏｒｃｅｄ               ａ               ｑｕｉｃｋ               ｓｍｉｌｅ.                "Ｙｏｕ               ｔｏｌｄ               ｍｅ               ｔｏ               ｓｈｕｔ               ｕｐ?! Ｎｏｗ               Ｉ               ｋｎｏｗ               ｙｏｕ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｍｅ!"                Ａｎｄ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｆ               ａｂｓｏｌｕｔｅｌｙ               ｎｏｗｈｅｒｅ,               Ｉ               ｈｕｇｇｅｄ               ｈｅｒ.                Ｏｎ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ               Ｄａｙ,               Ｉ               ｅｘｃｉｔｅｄｌｙ               ｂｒｏｕｇｈｔ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ               ｔｏ               ｍｙ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ'               ｈｏｕｓｅ               ｉｎ               Ｗｅｓｔｃｈｅｓｔｅｒ. Ｍｙ               ｍｏｍ               ｂｅａｍｅｄ               ａｔ               ｕｓ,               ｇｌａｍｏｒｏｕｓ               ａｓ               ｕｓｕａｌ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｂｌａｃｋ               ｃａｓｈｍｅｒｅ               ｄｒｅｓｓ               ａｎｄ               ｔａｓｔｅｆｕｌ               ｄｉａｍｏｎｄ               ｓｔｕｄ               ｅａｒｒｉｎｇｓ;               ｍｙ               ｄａｄ               ｗａｓ               ｌｏｕｄ               ａｎｄ               ｃｕｄｄｌｙ,               ｆｕｌｌ               ｏｆ               ａｄｖｉｃｅ               ａｎｄ               ｃｏｒｎｙ               ｊｏｋｅｓ;               ｍｙ               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ               Ａｎｎａ               ｗａｓ               ｓｔｒｉｋｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｈｅｒ               ｇｌｅａｍｉｎｇ               ａｕｂｕｒｎ               ｍａｎｅ               ｂｒｕｓｈｅｄ               ｔｏ               ｐｅｒｆｅｃｔｉｏｎ;               ｍｙ               ｂｒｏｔｈｅｒ-ｉｎ-ｌａｗ               Ｐｈｉｌ               ｗａｓ               ｗａｒｍ               ａｎｄ               ｋｉｎｄ,               ｅｎｖｅｌｏｐｉｎｇ               ｕｓ               ｉｎ               ａｎ               ｕｎｃｏｎｄｉｔｉｏｎａｌ,               ｓｗｅａｔｅｒｅｄ               ｅｍｂｒａｃｅ;               ａｎｄ               ｔｈｅｎ               ｔｈｅｉｒ               ｓｏｎ               Ｄｏｎｎｉｅ               ｃａｍｅ               ｓａｕｎｔｅｒｉｎｇ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏｏｍ. Ｈｅ               ｓｔｏｐｐｅｄ               ｗｈｅｎ               ｈｅ               ｓａｗ               ｍｅ.                "Ａｕｎｔ               Ｓａｍｍｙ,               ａｒｅ               ｙｏｕ               ａｗａｒｅ               ｔｈａｔ               56               ｐｅｒｃｅｎｔ               ｏｆ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ               ｇｉｆｔｓ               ａｒｅ               ｒｅｔｕｒｎｅｄ               Ｄｅｃ. 26?"                "ＯＫ,               Ｍｒ. Ｓｔａｔｉｓｔｉｃｓ,               ｔｈｅｎ               Ｉ               ｇｕｅｓｓ               ｔｈａｔ               ｍｅａｎｓ               ｙｏｕ               ｗｏｎ'ｔ               ｂｅ               ｗａｎｔｉｎｇ               ｙｏｕｒｓ."                Ｈｉｓ               ｓｍｉｌｅ               ｌｉｔ               ｕｐ               ｔｈｅ               ｒｏｏｍ. "Ｎｏｗ               ｔｈａｔ               Ｉ'ｍ               ｔａｌｌｅｒ               ｔｈａｎ               ｙｏｕ,               Ｉ'ｄ               ａｄｖｉｓｅ               ａｇａｉｎｓｔ               ｍａｋｉｎｇ               ｍｅ               ｍａｄ."                "Ｏｈ,               ｓｏ               ｙｏｕ               ｔｈｉｎｋ               ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ａ               ｂｉｇ               ｓｈｏｔ               ｎｏｗ,               ｊｕｓｔ               ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ               ｙｏｕ'ｒｅ               ａ               ＰＨＤ               ｉｎ               Ｍａｔｈｅｍａｔｉｃｓ?"                "Ｎｏ...Ｉ               ｋｎｏｗ               Ｉ               ａｍ."               Ａｓ               ｗｅ               ｐｌａｙ               ｆｏｕｇｈｔ               ｌｉｋｅ               ｗｅ               ｄｉｄ               ｅｖｅｒｙ               ｙｅａｒ,               Ｉ               ｔｈｅ               ｌｉｇｈｔ               ｈｉｔ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｙ'ｓ               ｂｌｏｎｄ               ｈａｉｒ,               ｎｏｗ               ｐｕｌｌｅｄ               ｂａｃｋ               ｉｎ               ａ               ｃｈｉｇｎｏｎ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｗｉｓｐｓ               ｆａｌｌｉｎｇ               ａｂｏｕｔ               ｈｅｒ               ｐｏｒｃｅｌａｉｎ               ｆａｃｅ. Ａｔ               54,               ｈｅｒ               ｌｏｏｋｓ               ｗｅｒｅ               ｓｔｉｌｌ               ｅｘｑｕｉｓｉｔｅ               ａｓ               ｅｖｅｒ. Ｉ               ｐｕｌｌｅｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｉｎｔｏ               ｔｈｅ               ｆｉｇｈｔ,               ａｎｄ,               ｌａｕｇｈｉｎｇ               ｂｒｅａｔｈｌｅｓｓｌｙ,               ｍａｄｅ               ｍｙ               ｅｓｃａｐｅ. Ｉ               ｓｔｏｏｄ               ｗａｔｃｈｉｎｇ               ｍｙ               ｎｅｐｈｅｗ               ａｎｄ               ｂｅｓｔ               ｆｒｉｅｎｄ               ｓｈｒｉｅｋｉｎｇ               ｗｉｔｈ               ｌａｕｇｈｔｅｒ,               ａｎｄ               ｂｅｇａｎ               ｔｏ               ｓｍｅｌｌ               ｔｈｅ               "Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ               Ｋｎｉｓｈｅｓ"               ｔｈａｔ               ｗｅｒｅ               ａ               ｓｔａｐｌｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｆａｍｉｌｙ'ｓ               ａｎｎｕａｌ               ｈｏｌｉｄａｙ               ｄｉｎｎｅｒ. Ｍｙ               ｓｉｓｔｅｒ               ａｎｄ               ｈｅｒ               ｈｕｓｂａｎｄ               ｈｅｌｄ               ｅａｃｈ               ｏｔｈｅｒ               ｃｌｏｓｅ               ｉｎ               ｔｈｅ               ｋｉｔｃｈｅｎ,               ｗｈｉｌｅ               ｍｙ               ｐａｒｅｎｔｓ               ｔｕｒｎｅｄ               ｏｎ               Ｂｉｎｇ               Ｃｒｏｓｂｙ'ｓ               "Ｗｈｉｔｅ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ"               ａｌｂｕｍ. Ａｓ               Ｉ               ｗａｔｃｈｅｄ               ｔｈｉｓ               ｓｃｅｎｅ,               ｍｙ               ｏｗｎ               ｐａｒｔｉｃｕｌａｒ               Ｃｈｒｉｓｔｍａｓ               ｔａｂｌｅａｕｘ,               Ｉ               ｔｏｏｋ               ｏｕｔ               ｏｎｅ               ｏｆ               ｍｙ               ｂｕｓｉｎｅｓｓ               ｃａｒｄｓ               ａｎｄ               ｌｏｏｋｅｄ               ｄｏｗｎ               ａｔ               ｉｔ. Ｉｎ               ｃｒｉｓｐ,               ｂｌａｃｋ               ｌｅｔｔｅｒｓ               ｉｔ               ｒｅａｄ:                ＣＨＲＩＳＳＡＭ               ＰＵＢＬＩＳＨＩＮＧ                               ＩＮ               ＢＵＳＩＮＥＳＳ               20               ＹＥＡＲＳ                Ｉ               ｓｍｉｌｅｄ,               ｓｈｏｏｋ               ｍｙ               ｈｅａｄ,               ａｎｄ               ｓａｔ               ｄｏｗｎ               ｔｏ               ｄｉｎｎｅｒ.

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