Please critgue my writing, I couldn't finish it. If you love it, I'll put up part two.?

The pie shop always gave me the creeps at night after the customers have all left. Same ruetene everyday: wake up at five A.M., bake pies, butcher bodies, take Sweeney breakfast which he NEVER eats, go back downstairs, help serve pies, go back UPstairs, clean blood, (this was usually up to seventeen times a day) wash the stuborn blood out of shirts, serve more customers, clean shop, butcher more bodies. It was only on Sundays that I didn't work due to law. Those days I sat around reading, playing the piano, writing, and making conversation. Oh, and fawning over Derick. At nights since I'm an imsoniac, I sometimes go upstairs to talk with the serial killer himself. I never really liked the term 'imsomiac' it reminded me of some mental illness that get's you put in an asylum. Wait, I shouldn't joke about that since it actually happened to me. . . Twice. My brogues style heels clicked on the wood of the stairs. I let me hand slide along the banister until I reached the top. I always loved London with a passion. It held some sort of beauty that New York or L.A. Never had. I can't put my finger on it, but tonight the city was at it's best. The sky was semi-clear with a full moon. The rain that came in the afternoon left puddles on the dark stones of the streets that reflected the yellow glow of the street lamps that were actually lit for once. I also learned something interesting, in Spring, flowers are hung from the lamp posts. All of this compaired to the grubby gray London I was introduced to made me think the city itself had bipolar disorder. I latched my hand onto the door handle and pushed open the door. The little jingle of the bell seemed so out of place in the dark and gloomy barber shop. Like always, Mr. Todd was pacing back and forth infront of the huge window. I crossed the room and parked it in the chair of doom. "So, Mr. T, watcha doin'?"