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Why does he make it so difficult for me to do anything nice for him?
Also--and I'm debating how much of an absolutely awful idea it would be to tell him this--at this point, after everything that's happened, he really should know better than to ask me to do things for him if he doesn't actually want me to.
And on a practical note, somebody needs to get these god damn things out of my suite before I eat them.
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Cookies are a construct of the mind. Cookies don't exist, and yet anything can be a cookie if you decide it is. The FBI may be taking your cookies, not in a physical sense, but by subtly discouraging your beautiful imagination from discovering the cookies that exist all around you. If you notice moustachioed men in sunglasses appearing and distracting you as soon as your mind begins to wander, it might be because you were on the verge of discovering the realm of cookies that looms ever-present at the periphery of your senses.
My imagination is always bonkers! Always out of this world! I just want the FBI to share the cookies I give them, they're stingy as fuck!