[As helpful as ever, Ted's journal lies open on the kitchen counter. Atop the cupboards, a cockroach skittered through dust. And then it flashed white.
And now there's a 33-year old man sprawled atop the cupboards. Disoriented, as well. With a groan, he rolls--
And there's a couple loud bangs and thuds in the kitchen.]
FUCK! What the hell?!
[A very
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Wh...Where are you?? I'll come help you!
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Kitchen.
[And while he waits for his heroine in shining armor, he's going to wish up an ice pack to delicately press against his cranium, wincing and hissing at the pain as he did so.]
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Oh, man... well, at least you have an ice pack... but we should probably move you. Somehow. So you're, like, lying down, but with your head elevated... that's what you're supposed to have happen when you're hurt, right?
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[Linefacing so hard.]
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[She looks up and... presto manifesto, sees the cupboard.]
...Oh.
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And now I'm down here. On the floor. In pain.
[Linefacing forever.]
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