A dead woman was found outside my house and everyone's asking questions. Did I kill the dead lady? Is this part of a bigger plot involving the Simon Cowell-led British Mafia? Did I kill the dead lady because she was muling heroine then -- then cracked out on a barbiturate cocktail -- completely forgot about her, returned inside and watched the entire season of Fringe until the cops came knocking on my door? The answer to all these questions is a resounding -- I forgot what the questions were.
Oh the dead lady. That's weird right?
What can I say, bad luck seems to find me. This reminds me of the time I mixed horse tranquilizers, Valium, liquid dish detergent (the environmentally-safe kind), and Pepsi One, stripped off my clothes and headed to Spanish Harlem, only to wake up two days later in regular Harlem with a note written sharpie on my torso that read, "Don't shit where you eat -- Love Mom"
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