Jesus Christ. No, I haven't told him yet, but I will. I told you first because I knew you'd get all You about it.
Apparently I got in one too many fights inside city limits, and they're cracking down on disruptive behavior or something. It's a slap on the wrist. It's nothing.
If genuine and rational concern for your wellbeing is being "Me" about it, I suppose I did.
There are constant bar fights in this city, I don't see how yours are more significant. Fine. I'll be waiting outside. Let me know the moment something suspicious happens.
Your preferences are noted and irrelevant. Inmates don't get votes. I don't need a massage. Or a nap. I need you to be not incarcerated. If you don't want me lingering, perhaps you should consider not getting arrested in the future.
Remember the good ol days when you used to go on those long rants about how you weren't my mother and you weren't here to perch on my shoulder or whatever?
Yes, the good ol days, when I aided in molding you into a tool for the apocalypse.
I too wish I still had a magical pocket-dimension room to lock you in for your own good, but as the sage Mick Jagger proclaimed: you can't always get what you want.
[ She's staring in a mirror. She looks like shit. She looks worse than shit. Her face — no. She will have her shit together before she opens that door again.
Jo presses her lips, still staring at herself, when she starts thinking it. ]
[ the end of week 1 is rough, it takes cas a while to focus in and get a message out, head feeling foggy and swimming as a fever is starting to set it. ]
Ì̸̼̯̮̙͑́'̷̼̎̓͐ṃ̶̜̮̊͠ͅ ̴̞̣͠ well enough. [ liar. ] I̴̧̖͖͒'̵̛͚l̴̢̖̳̝̉̍̌l̶͕̬͓̾̋͝͠ ̸̱̻͔̈̎͘b̴̪́͌̉ȅ̷̯̦̱̫̅ ̶̯̍ better when I see you al̵̡͈̫͛͒͂͋l̴̘͉̾̽͜ ̶͖̩͓̖̀̉̃͘ä̷̟̖͉́̒͐g̷͚̫̦̟̋̂a̴̭̋̄̈́ḭ̴̗̂̅ͅn̴̖̝͗̊.̸̲͖̠̇̃ ̵̖̠͍̪̐͊̄
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