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Summary
My therapist says walks are healthy.
Apparently my therapist did not account for eight-foot goth raccoon women lurking on dumpsters at eleven p.m.
One wrong turn later, I’m being dragged into a closed bowling alley by a woman named Velvet, drinking something blue enough to violate several health codes, and trying to determine whether I’m being flirted with, kidnapped, or adopted as enrichment.
It was supposed to be a walk.