Somewhere, in Sherman Oaks, a board artist is missing their white post-its

Skippy is running around tearing up the carpet and banging his face into the bedroom window. Not a good thing 'cause I live on the third floor. If I don't go to bed soon, Skippy is going to be reinacting some action movie where someone crashes through a window. Except he won't have a machine gun and there won't be a massive explosion behind him. This must mean it's time for bed. Hasta manana, baby.
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