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It’s sunday. do not sleep. do not eat. do not drink water. fuck self-care. engage in pointless transactions until your aorta caves. until your veins collapse. impregnate your phone with empty adoration until you enter an afterlife that doesn’t exist. die with the most likes.
Eat your new farm to table chicken parfait. Three chickens bread into one and smothered in yogurt. Topped with shamrock shake. And garnished with the beads found in the filter of a camel crush.
“Regarding the birth of every GM in history” the first. the last. and every GM in between, hand crafted after a bowl of grape nuts, hoping your intestines finally do their job. Open for inquiries on this historic moment.
🥲 this on the back of a soiled JNCO jean jacket acquired from Plato’s Closet for a half eaten bag of scrambled egg flavored cashews from Harry & David 🥲 https://t.co/gYEjjB2pDb
The floor for helplessly thrusting into the Twitter void, seeking a climax that will never come, and salvation that doesn’t exist is now 47 xtz. 33 editions.
Bullish on leaving bath water over night then topping off with a bit of hot water the next morning and sitting in it until it evaporates.
The floor for a parasitic relationship of eternal and blind consumption ultimately resulting in resentment and hatred is also 999 tez 🥲