If John’s blog post doesn’t scare you, nothing will. Eeek! There goes my plot about a middle-aged woman who grills out a lot and torches buildings on the side.
He knows everything, and I mean everything, about you—your drunk Instagram pics, how you falsely claim to hate One Direction, that is, if iTunes’ “What Makes You Beautiful” download records are accurate—and Steve Jobs would demand no less, which you’d know, since you bought the authorized biography from Amazon–, how you burnt 80% of your paycheck by Monday morning, leading to that pathetic, pleading email to Dad about how you donated too much to Goodwill and Habitat for Humanity.
Pete leans back, the slurping sound from his ebony Coke Zero can a bit obnoxious, easily heard over the faint hum of the overhead flourescent lights. His curly red hair flutters as he shakes his head. Everyone thinks they want to know everything. But, Pete knows better. Sure, in the abstract, omniscience is great. In the Arctic cooler of reality, he didn’t really want to know every last particular about your sex…
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