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( , Sun 1 Apr 2001, 1:00)
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he drove, I was in the passenger seat, he's playing some super creepy violin music, and suddenly I feel like I'm in the car with Hannibal Lecter.
He's humming, moving his hand ever so slightly to the music. We're driving down a winding country road. The forest begins to get dense and dark.
But we're nowhere near our destination. I'm gripping the arm rest until my fingernails leave indents in the leather, all of the hairs are standing on the back of my neck and I'm beginning to hyperventilate. The trees aren't getting any lighter, eventually there's only slight rays of sun shining through the tiny spaces between leaves.
Then we pull into his driveway. He unbuckles his belt, turns to me.
He smiles wickedly and says "So I guess you'll call me when it's ready?" I say yes.
He gets out, hobbles up the stone walk to his house and I scramble to get into the driver's seat, shitting myself and chastising myself the whole way back.
( , Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:01, 1 reply, 16 years ago)

edit: although nothing happened, that was honestly the most scared I've ever been in my life
( , Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:09, Reply)

edit: other than your kitchen knives.
( , Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:12, Reply)

( , Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:17, Reply)

if you don't know what it says, whats the point in talking about it?
( , Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:20, Reply)

I just thought I'd point that out before we go any further.
( , Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:26, Reply)

( , Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:32, Reply)

You know how to clean a gun! Who cares how clean your gun is? It's the pointing bits of metal that whizz out of it and kill you that impress people, not whether it's shiny or not.
Bloody women and their cleaning obsession.
( , Fri 30 Oct 2009, 13:35, Reply)
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