Just Avoiding Life.
 
There are moments (hours) where I feel unmotivated (I'm laying on the hallway floor) and need something (but not alcohol anymore) to -- I don't know, filleth my cup. This blog runneth over with mediocre nonstop rambling, sort of how actual life is around me.
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The Proverbial Onion And The Cocoon
Posted:Apr 17, 2019 9:26 am
Last Updated:Apr 17, 2019 4:57 pm
16 Views

Greetings, fellow perverts! It's been a minute hasn't it? I kid - it's actually been about 6 hours, which sets a new record for speed in posts. Let me begin by explaining that depressing and prickly mood I've been in today. Yesterday I took a walk over to the walk-in clinic to address a throbbing and sharp pain that reached from my temple to my collarbone. It had been merely a dull bothersome ache the previous day, and I suspected an infection in my tooth or ear but knew it could have also been a bit of lunch stuck in my molar, which desperately (and literally) aches to be removed. Alas, finding a dentist and beginning the long road to emotional and physical reparations with my mouth in this new city is low on my priorities.

The doctor visit was quick and painless (for him!), resulting in a strong antibiotic and a few Vicodin. Ah, Vicodin - you pesky white pills that tease me with the feeling of normalcy for 4-6 hours! See, I have fibromyalgia (a neurological pain disorder I guess would be the description) and a couple deteriorating discs in my spine. Add in some arthritis and you have a very geriatric 30-something who wants to achieve everything in the world, but settles to achieve minor daily tasks. It's taken a few years to accept this, and to feel a day or two of "normal" is like heaven. The toothache subsiding, I embarked on a thorough and hurried cleaning spree in my boyfriend's house. Many loads of laundry, vacuuming, and general chores later, I was sleepless but exhausted.

News that my estranged husband was going to move back into OUR place with his ridiculously sociopathic ex was eating at me despite knowing I'm in a much better and healthier situation. I hate getting punched in the face by her partner as much as the next girl, but apparently his ex didn't get that memo. May her second chance be her last mistake and although my distaste for her exceeds any Fujita or Richter scale, I don't wish domestic abuse upon anybody. Even still, I feel hurt and violated knowing they will enjoy rooms and views and shitty damaged energy that I used to share with someone I thought was the last love of my life.

So I felt a little down, and a little cranky. I glared at my boyfriend while he slept, I glared at the window while the sun came up, I glared at myself in the mirror after my shower. After much glaring and overbearing staring, I was able to snap out of it when my adorable 20-something man woke up to get ready for his tattoo appointment. His excitement and happiness shoved itself into my grumpy aura, and within two minutes I felt back to myself.

It's not noon, but slowly things seem to be finding themselves a place in my mind, organizing their importance and making room for little bits of relief. A small loan to help with gas to the funeral, a dog who thinks she's still a puppy slamming herself into my lap, and a gas station cappuccino are all marks in the Win column for today. Positivity breeds positivity (and sometimes babies, God forbid) so I'll continue to keep my head up and cling onto that contentedness I am surrounded with.

Each layer of problems and blessings I have this month seem to be wrapping me in the experiences of life. Instead of an onion, peeling back its layers to reveal the soul of the bulb, maybe I'm in the middle of a change. Not so much a butterfly, but maybe something a but duller - a moth. Not a big beautiful one like a Luna moth... just the ones you might find on a back porch evening, blindly butting their heads against the wooden siding. That's me today - Blind Content Moth.
1 comment
A Week Of Layers
Posted:Apr 17, 2019 3:11 am
Last Updated:Apr 17, 2019 10:21 pm
265 Views

There is a lot going on, as usual. A lot, and still so little -- but somehow here I am with no status change in general. I have come to the conclusion that I've become both happier and more distressed. As far as relationships go I'm in the category of those you find quite annoying in their contentedness. I'm content. It's good. It's not too good, and it's not just good. Nothing quite new so I'll contentedly skip this part besides mentioning that my list of acquaintances has pared itself down significantly as each day I list "is a prick" after a guy tries to convince me to be unfaithful as "our little secret." Men, get your shit together and stop trying to get me to sleep with you when you know full well I'm in a monogamous relationship. It is disgusting.

The distress is moreso in my other facets of life. I've hit a plateau with my recovery, I was evicted this week and need my items gone from the place by Friday, I'm still flat broke and still looking for a job, I have no place to live nor any prospect in the near future, I'm attending a funeral on Thursday for a childhood friend, and I have no vehicle or money to transport or store my furniture or childrens' things.

These situations are hard on a soul just by themselves, but combined I am overwhelmed and ... distressed. So very distressed, so distressed that I'm basically numb. On top of this, I hear my estranged husband is planning on moving back into my newly evicted house with his girlfriend (who he was with for a few years prior to meeting and marrying me) who is as manipulative and terrible as he is. Life cannot get any stranger nor fucked up as it happens to me.

A bit of a strain on the optimism, but I am still content. I have people around me who strive to make others happy, to make the world a bit better, to live quiet and beautiful lives. This is where I should be and where I am - if only I weren't the one bursting onto this idyllic scene with my plethora of problems to disturb them all. It makes me feel like maybe I should quietly back out of the room and find my own tiny dark space to fuck up instead of this one. No - I am content ... a very forced and steadily headstrong content, whether I want to or not. There is no way I should be anything else, lest I upset this little microcosm of hope in this new town, right?
2 Comments
Guess Who's Monogamous.
Posted:Apr 10, 2019 8:01 pm
Last Updated:Apr 17, 2019 2:56 am
520 Views

Well... who do you think?!
It's Probably Ro
Definitely Ro.
2 Comments , 4 votes
I Was 19 Once (A Letter To A Suicidal Stranger)
Posted:Apr 5, 2019 12:01 am
Last Updated:Apr 17, 2019 5:43 pm
584 Views

Note: I've been starting and abandoning post after post the last few days. I can't seem to get a string of thoughts together to make a coherent entry, but nostalgia has been hitting hard as well. In order to hopefully break this writer's -- maze, scramble, ricochet, pinball? -- I've just included the from a reply to someone who 19 felt since he hadn't accomplished anything, he was destined for failure. He spoke of depression and suicide, and I wanted to show him that 19 could be just a start.

I was 19 once, I felt the most and did the most and experienced the most during that year.

It started at 18 in November 2001 when I had a friend over to watch a movie, I don't remember which film it was. It bored us and he told me he was leaving the next day, driving out to Colorado to work the ski lifts. "I want to do that, that sounds amazing, I'm so bored," I told him. I convinced him to let me tag along although I couldn't drive.

We left in the morning, with everything I owned in a red Darth Maul backpack, and drove from the Midwest up into the Rockies where I passed out in a gas station due to the elevation change. I was too cold and too excited to sleep, making my way through orientation and finding sleep at a hostel in a little tourist town. I woke up at 4 a.m. to catch the bus an hour into the mountains, watching the sunrise while I stomped around in the snow and put rich kids and celebrities and Olympians on ski lifts until evening when I dragged myself back onto the bus toward that hostel home.

I burned out quickly and quit Snowmass ski life, and lived day to day by washing dishes and showing tourists around the brick sidewalks and hot springs, giving them a taste of real life in their treks across the country. I snuggled up to Australian hippies and Seattle doctors, traded poems with boys from Georgia and listened to Cat Stevens with locals.

I got a job at a camera shop after the owner saw my immaculate handwriting on my application; no interview necessary, he knew I was articulate and precise, thorough and intelligent. I moved in with a coworker, a curly haired blonde with too much energy for it to be organic. The amount of cocaine we did was only matched by the words I put onto paper that year, lengthy paragraphs of a lost girl trying to climb out of whiskey nights and speed filled workweeks. Our neighbor was a grey haired rafting company owner, and we spent weekends drinking and sliding down class 4 rapids, tan and careless.

One day this blonde came home, told me she'd scored some meth and planned to do it all day the next day; I knew it was time to go. If I stayed in that two bedroom condo, I would stop living -- either through addiction or death. I was already unhappy with how much I had let myself stop feeling, and I had stopped writing and drawing completely. The baggies and tinfoil with coke residue littered our counters, always free because we were young and pretty and smiled a lot.

That night was a going away party at the hostel for a friend who had arrived months before like I had. I made my way downtown and into the fenced backyard crowded by Irish, Californian, Japanese tourists looking for an experience they could carve into their memories. I said hello to the regulars, the long term visitors, I introduced myself to an Argentinian beauty who was looking for a rich man to keep her comfortable.

My friend was from Massachusetts, and I met his friends who had come to visit and take him back to the city; among them was a man with long hair and cerulean eyes, a guitar player who was easy going and unassuming. He was going back home to Jamaica Plain, a neighborhood in Boston, via Greyhound the next morning. "I want to do that, that sounds amazing, I'm so bored," I told him. He said he would welcome my company, that it would be amazing, that he was leaving at 8 in the morning. I finished my drink and went home.

My red backpack sat in the closet, and that night I packed my clothes, my sketchbooks, my pens. I slept a few hours, and I woke up the next morning listening to Jurassic 5 and I put on my All-Stars. Writing a quick note to my roommate to tell her she could keep or sell anything I left behind, I left my key on the counter and walked out of the apartment. I took the morning bus toward the Greyhound, bought a ticket, and had a smoke outside the station while I felt the hot July sun start to move in on the valley we stayed in.

This long haired, blue eyed man walked up, incredulous at my bravery. He didn't think I'd come, he thought I wasn't serious, and he was excited and ecstatic at my impulsivity. We climbed onto the stuffy bus, his guitar and bag stashed away, my backpack beside me. I didn't feel nervous, I didn't feel fear; the novelty of a new life, a new adventure kept me from sleeping and we talked for hours. In Omaha we had a layover, and spent the night on the floor with other travelers, playing songs that we all sang along to, drawing pictures and writing phrases in notebooks of people we barely knew and would never see again. The bus arrived, and we continued on.

In days we covered most of the country and this man fell in love with me, or the idea of me. When we finally climbed the stairs to his little apartment he shared with four others, we fell into bed and slept and fucked for two days. I wanted to see the city, and he wanted to show me why he loved every inch of it. I was used to a small town, and soon felt lost in the sidewalks and brick that covered the dirt below us. I felt my soul slip a little and fade, and found comfort in the arboretum near our apartment, and spent days and nights among the trees while trying to remember what fresh air felt like.

It was time to go again, I felt myself getting lost in a city where no one knew me and I couldn’t see myself. I called my mother, asked her for a bus ticket back to the Midwest, and she agreed. Long hair and blue eyes couldn’t keep me here no matter how intense he loved, no matter how comfortable his incense smelling rooms was. I needed the trees and grass and clear sky around me, and I left on an August morning while he was at work. I knew he couldn’t handle who I was, who I had been before, and who I wanted to be. It wasn’t enough, and I wrote another quick note telling him I needed to let him go.

The bus ride home was quick and uneventful, and I meant only to stay with my parents for a few weeks before hitching down toward Georgia, or Florida, some southern state I hadn’t yet fully experienced. 9/ happened just then, and transit shut down everywhere. I was trapped, and I let a mediocre life and a mediocre man happen to me. I spent years existing where I was, letting life drain me and I lost the sparkle and brilliance of opportunities pass by until three months ago when I couldn’t take another minute of normalcy.

I moved out, and I am trying to find where I was at 19, a fantastic age of just being thrown into the world with every possibility. It is impossible to feel pathetic or desperate when you’ve only just started to see what you can do and who you can do it with. It isn’t desperation you feel, it’s an urgency to live. It isn’t pathetic, it’s a blank page that you aren’t quite sure where to start in. Put your pen to paper, scribble your dreams and ideas, and tuck them into your soul. Live them and be them and share them, you’re 19 and you have time to feel and do and experience the most this year.
1 comment
Impatience And Destiny Walk Into A Bar...
Posted:Apr 4, 2019 7:47 pm
Last Updated:Apr 17, 2019 10:23 pm
575 Views

First let preface this post with a link to a song I've had on my playlists for about a month or two now. For awhile it wasn't directed anyone in particular, then after a bit it was directed a couple of my friends. Now - damn, I just don't understand how I end up in these situations. Anyway, rapper Lucidious's "Waiting For You" is linked here but now I can't remember why it was relevant so let me think about that...:
://youtu.be/ygfCmiwmg

Right, so I remember, which should have been obvious to me - it a lack of sleep in conjunction with experimenting with a new substance (another post, I swear!). Remember how I slid into three FWB situations, telling them all that no feelings, only sex, and friendships were the requirements? Now that down to one, a relationship with someone I consider my best friend, things have gotten complex despite the simplicity. How simple can a FWB/BFF/BF relationship be when ours is none of them at all?

How simple is it to feel that you belong with or to someone when you're both on the same ridiculously confusing page? How complex is it when you're both going through breakups, self growth, addictions, recoveries, and a change of life in general? When another person understands you so accurately and responds to your passive/assertive demeanor without the aggression swung at you from the last relationship, then which is it? Easy or hard?

If it isn't the right time, or maybe the right place, or right person (someone years my junior? How can this work besides never running of movies and music to introduce him to?) then why am I so convinced it is the right everything? I know I told another FWB a couple weeks ago, "I fall in love with everyone I meet, like a dog," and first that's what I attributed this attraction to - my ability to love everyone. My brain puts on its blinders and tells my heart that free to love, be loved, and handle love no matter my intentions. Fortunately that was the point of my FWB arrangements - I put it plainly and sternly that it was just sex, and almost arrogantly I said, "Just don't love me," but it was a true concern. My love for everything and everyone can come across as intense and personal, which it is. But I feel it for all of them and I didn't want them to get the idea that this was True Love. It might have been for me - I told them, "When you're here, yours. When you go the front door, mine." It was a safety net just as much for them as for .

Love... the strange and varied history with this feeling is worth a in itself. I think My Path in life is to give and have as much love as possible. I used to think it was to Help People, or to be a Fixer. A couple weeks ago, I realized it wasn't to fix someone or something in each situation. It was just to Love. Be unconditional, objective, and happy. No matter the situation or person, be happy and be in love - with myself, with the spring weather, with that cloud floating a little lower than the others. Whatever I came across, find something or someone to love. This is easy for me, and to be optimistic is natural to me. I've learned people have fixed themselves while I went on just trying to love. I've learned people have become happier, more stable, restless, braver, so many things - not because I was trying to help them, or help myself, but because I love.

Nothing happened because of me. Things happen because of love, or happiness, or a drive to succeed. Things happen because of how we stride through life, tiptoes or stomps or shuffles. Things happen because of our feelings and emotions and ideas and dreams. Things happen because of our actions, but never because of us. People don't simply change the world. Love and hope and fear and sadness and happiness change the world. Who are we to be so self important that we think we can control destiny - and on that note who are we to try and push the timeline into something that fits our lives?

"Wait," I said, "We'll wait until we can handle a relationship in a healthy and adult way." My FWB agreed, and so we do wait. We wait while we spend our nights together and our days together. We wait while we laugh, and cry, and grocery shop, and watch 90s cult classics together. We wait while we pretend we don't already have this relationship. The universe doesn't wait for us, the universe already put us together. The universe laughs while we think we say we'll be patient, and destiny smirks when we kiss goodbye. I think accidentally jumped while still judging the distance. Let's see how far I fall.
0 Comments
I'm In A Weird, Dark Place...
Posted:Mar 25, 2019 4:53 am
Last Updated:Apr 17, 2019 10:23 pm
694 Views

I'm writing you from this unfamiliar and dark territory that seems unmapped, unfamiliar, and a tad bit terrifying. Ironically I'm also writing to you while a man is sleeping peacefully as possible as he can with an ear infection. He isn't a boyfriend, or my husband, he's a friend - a friend with benefits. I'd settled comfortably into a routine with three men who all knew of each other, and of the requirements and expectations: no feelings, no commitment, and that there were more than one of them.

Unfortunately my first (beautiful, sensitive, caring) connection was a tall, dark, handsome man who got his probation revoked (weed, of all things!) and is currently sitting in jail somewhere definitely not sleeping with me. The second was closest in age and has his life mostly in order (a CNA with a weird roommate and a dad who thinks I'm sketchy) - this is the man snoring here behind me while I type quietly as possible on a laptop. The third... ugh. Getting over a similar breakup with a manipulative partner who made us feel like everything was our fault, he crept in and became my best friend. We laugh and smile and went to a wedding, we relapsed on our demons, then cast them out immediately after. This man is who I'm trying to navigate some sort of friendship without falling into that hole called a Rebound. Rebounds are for those you don't really care about and can fuck up a relationship, then move on. Rebounds are a hail mary before you realize you have to change yourself in order to move forward. Rebounds aren't for best friends, or even people with half a moral compass as you.

So here I am, in this titled Weird, Dark Place. It's my bedroom. The things that happen here are vanilla compared to this entire site, but in my life where I dictated the rules - weird and dark is all I can think of. I don't mean dark in a negative or sad way - they're simply unfamiliar. People who care, who think of me before themselves, people who want to build me up and make me better simply by letting me see my potential - what the fuck?! This isn't a relationship I'm used to, and it scares me. I have had to reflect on myself so many times that I feel like I'm in a funhouse. I see these distorted, different images of my body, my mind, my soul - but they're all better. They're reflections of who I could be, how I could change, what I could do with myself. This isn't what I signed up for when I looked for fuck buddies.

The human soul is a strange thing. It wants one thing, requires another, but asks for something completely different. I'm not sure anymore. I'm turned upside down, I'm on a rollercoaster, I have a wristband for the whole park but I don't know where to head first. All I wanted was some simple attention, a warm body next to me, a few minutes to feel wanted. Instead I got three incredible friends who all have different attributes and personalities that have only improved my outlook on myself, my life, and my relationships. I've learned so much about myself and I've taught one how to love himself again. Whether these work out into long term friendships or not, I can't say they were just fuck buddies. These are real friends and real connections, and I won't leave without them leaving an imprint on my life that I'll never regret.
4 Comments
Is Music An Effective Gatekeeper? or You Listen To That Garbage?!
Posted:Mar 19, 2019 2:31 pm
Last Updated:Apr 4, 2019 8:50 pm
738 Views

Once again, music becomes the focal point in a post or blog or essay. Like I said, about 80% of my daily life is music. Listening to mnusic, making playlists, on in the background while cleaning or hanging out with friends, using my fingers to play Beethoven on my thighs when I'm too nervous in public... I could tell you 100 ways that music is important to me and still be able to tell you 100 more.

The problem is, I enjoy music so much that I don't have a specific genre I listen to. I do confess that is one of my favorite genres but there are so many subgenres or categories that I can't say it is its own encompassing genre. Trap, mumble, g funk, etc ... you name it and you can find one hundred different types of it. was originally an acronym for Rhythm and Poetry, which is fitting. The two things i love about are the two most important - The beat and the words. Sure, there are melodies, hooks, the alliteration and rhyme, the flow and melody -- all it boils down to is that if it has meaning and a good beat, I'm in.

I'm beginning to think I should transfer this blog over to a music site, since I find myself increasingly posting about music -- there are posts I've written here and otherwise that have music as the subject. I didn't realize until I started this project that the notes and sharps and flats and crescendos are part of my daily life so much that without them I would fall apart like a sweater unraveling. Should I? I'm not sure.
4 Comments
I'd Rather Be Flayed (Hyperbole, Not A Kink!)
Posted:Mar 2, 2019 7:55 am
Last Updated:Mar 30, 2019 2:45 am
915 Views

I recently pruned and edited my posts to make it a bit more anonymous. Not because I'm afraid of someone discovering my salacious and arousing posts (Someone's got to have a fetish for annoyed cousins and socially awkward stream of consciousness)... I'm afraid it will be hated. Reviled. Ridiculed. Repulsive. Recumbent. Restitution. I might just be thinking of "R" words. A blog centered on all those specific adjectives would be much more interesting, though.

I started writing with an idea in mind, and I will probably expound on it if I should finally achieve that threesome with two men. I have actually "crossed off" a couple of items just last night, but I use quotations because I never really did sit down to finish that list. I thought about it often, but my willingness to try anything and my need to be thorough would result in a list that rivals my last husband's criminal history.

I just want to make sure I'm not missing out, as well as keeping my ability to make snap judgements in check. I want to find out more about myself without also compromising the morals I have and the rules I've drawn up. It seems like this would be the least likely place I could look for readers and objectivity of content -- alas as I have noticed throughout life, people who live on the fringe or outside of society's sexual acceptance seem to be more accepting than the rest of the world. This is both a boon and a drawback. I can't gauge my ability on viewer count since most of my writing doesn't center on sex as a topic. On the other hand, I know (...shit well now I hope and pray as well) my Uncle Dave won't see me at the next family reunion with the knowledge that I am so sexually sheltered and organized that I've made a post in order to rectify that.

Right now I might have had less than a couple hours of sleep and my brain is about as fragmented and empty as my net worth. I cannot promise when I read this tonight or tomorrow that I won't remember half of what I wrote. Some of it is because of the reason I lost that sleep, but I am convinced that is another post or two entirely worth its own space. Regardless of the fact that last night might have been a one-off, the resulting ideas and need to just let that shit OUT will necessitate some serious thought. The obligation I made to myself to be open, consistent and generally O-fucking-kay with criticism or comments is becoming more difficult with each update -- and I'm pretty sure if this were Tinder, everyone would still be trying to decide which way to swipe while being drawn to the plane wreck that my life has revealed itself to me. I'm just lucky I don't fly.
2 Comments
My Roommate Can't Stand My Music
Posted:Feb 23, 2019 3:29 am
Last Updated:Mar 3, 2019 8:52 pm
1118 Views

Everyone has different tastes. Genres, moods, ideas -- music is universal and in that way it is also unique to each listener. No one is going to find their perfect match in music preference, but my roommate and I are pretty close. It helps that he's also related to me, but I don't think it's a huge factor.

You'll find me listening to Tech N9ne, Rittz, Tom Petty, weird female swedish singers who look like young men, but mostly artists who live inspiringly under the Rhymesayers label. This isn't the music my roommate hates me for. It's -- yeah this is embarrassingly typical -- the love songs I play at 80% volume on repeat. For days.

This is not indicative of my regularly scheduled programming, not at all. I've usually played one of 3 or 4 playlists that involve a lot of hip hop and , some metal, an entire playlist of guitar solos (Eruption!), and then... seven playlists consisting of various love songs spanning decades, moods, and genres. I have a playlist for being lonely, being overwhelmed, being horny, being horny and alone and overwhelmed... I mean, I get specific. My favorite playlist not created by me is titled something like, "Sex Playlist (For All The Sex I'm Not Having)" ...I mean come on, it was made for me wasn't it?

I have a playlist specifically made for when I want to think about specific people. I have a playlist for when I want to think about anything but specific people. I have... you get it. My roommate gets it -- sometimes I listen to the same 4 Lil Peep songs for an entire day thanks to his speaker in the kitchen. It's endearing; someone so tough and streetwise moping about to terribly sad songs about drugs and ratchet bitches (cocaina).

I do him one better. I will repeat a single song 5 times before switching to another, and then do it a few more times before I go back to the first song. Sometimes I will adjust the tempo of my silent, pathetic tears to match whatever ridiculous lyrics happen to be playing. For this reason I am not allowed the aux cord to the speakers. I have to have my own speaker. I must ask if I can play music, and it must be vetted by whoever is in that particular room. Halsey's "Bad At Love" is banned due to a January situation where it was on YouTube in the living room no less than 15 times in one day. (I can't help it, she's a hard crush for me.)

I stay in my bedroom with my depressing or uplifting or enthusiastic or sexual or hungry love songs. I play my music on repeat. I'm not embarrassed. If you find a sex partner who is great and makes you orgasm at least a few times each session, why try a new one? Tried and true, I'm going to wade through the difficult and long journey of dating in my late 30s with K-Ci & JoJo at full volume. Sucks for the rest of you.
1 comment
She Abandoned A Project? So Unlike Her.
Posted:Feb 23, 2019 1:29 am
Last Updated:Mar 2, 2019 7:23 am
1129 Views

It isn't that I didn't have something to say, or maybe that I had something to say that didn't fit here. Please -- this is a sex-centered site. If you are patient and use enough lubrication, anything will fit here. On that note, this particular post has no topic and no real direction. I'm simply feeling antsy as fuck and need to do something. Strap in, buckle up, apply directly to the forehead -- do what you need to get through this shitpile of a post.

I'm an okay specimen - Attractive enough to avoid curious gazes at my face, but not so bangin that I get curious gazes at my face. I land squarely in the Gazeless Zone that I so dearly adore. Receiving attention is definitely not my strong suit as far as grace and dignity. Throw a compliment my way and it might as well be a 200 lb jealous ex-girlfirned - I'm not escaping unscathed. I've been working on the simple yet effective, "Thank you! I really love your -insert reciprocative compliment here-!" Sometimes I can pull it off, sometimes it comes out more like "Gross, I hate my mouth, it looks like a Snapchat filter is glitching." Either way, I'm trying guys. Please don't swipe left just because I have food on my lip and the booger I couldn't find after sneezing has stationed itself on my chest. Maybe I have a great personality.
1 comment

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