Oh my god. Look, look what I found in a stray notebook in the back of my childhood closet:
"Retief," Assistant Undersecretary Magnan muttered from the corner of his mouth, making waving motions at the obscuring cloud of grey smoke, "would you kindly extinguish that foul-smelling narcotic? Ambassador Grosgrain," he gestured toward the grey-
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2. I KNOW where the Mary-Sue notebook of mine is. I can't bring myself to open the box or touch it or anything. It's from, good lord, 17 years ago, I reckon. I don't want to know what I wrote. So very much.
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2. As a matter of fact, a few months after I'd written the sappiest of fantasies in my diary at age, what, thirteen ("Our enemy?" "Dead. Our child?" "Safe."), I actually ended up cutting those pages out of the diary altogether, driven by some instinct that, yes, they were indeed too humiliating to Let Fall Into The Wrong Hands. But the stuff I left in there ain't much better.
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There's room enough in that pairing for a solid threesome. Just because Obi-Wan didn't commune with him until later, there's no reason Qui-Gon can't hang with his boys before they got the hang of it.
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