
CHALKBOX, DAY ONE. FIFTY-TWO-ISH KARKAT HOURS. I'VE SEEN A LOT OF BULLSHIT IN MY LIFE. A *LOT.* BULLSHIT OF SUCH A MYRIAD VARIETY THAT IF YOU WENT INTO A BULLSHIT PARLOR ADVERTISING EVERY FLAVOR OF BULLSHIT UNDER THE SUN, BULLSHIT NEAPOLITAN, BULLSHIT SPUMONI, BULLSHIT SORBET, BULLSHIT OF EVERY POSSIBLE QUALITY AND CONSISTENCY, AND THEN SERVED ME UP A TALL, HEAPING BULLSHIT CONE STACKED TO A HEIGHT THAT WOULD SEND EVEN TROLL SCOOBY-DOO INTO A FUCKING COMA, I WOULD SAMPLE EVERY SINGLE FLAVOR ON THAT MILE-HIGH BULLSHIT SUNDAE WITHOUT BATTING A FUCKING BULB. BECAUSE I'VE SEEN IT BEFORE. THIS. THIS IS THE FRESHEST BULLSHIT I'VE EVER TASTED. WHAT. THE FUCK. IS THIS. THIS IS SINGLE-HANDEDLY THE MOST PAN-MELTINGLY GARISH BLOCK IN AN ALREADY EYE-SEARING TORMENT NEXUS OF UGLY GREEN BLOCKS. WHY IS IT SO SMALL. WHY DOES THE FURNITURE LOOK LIKE IT'S FOR WIGGLERS OF RECENTLY DIVORCED LUSUSDADS. AND WHAT THE FUCK IS ON THE WALL. I CAN'T EVEN PARSE THIS SHIT WITH A FINE TOOTH HAIR DE-WRANGLER. NOBODY SHINE A FUCKING BLACK LIGHT IN HERE. I'M CHITTING THE PICTURE FOR POSTERITY. BECAUSE SEEING IS BELIEVING, AND I CAN BARELY BELIEVE WHAT I'M SEEING. BUT ALSO BECAUSE I'M GOING TO MOP THIS BULLSHIT RIGHT OFF THE FACE OF THE MOON. UPDATES WILL COME. GIVE ME TWO KARKAT HOURS. ACTUALLY, MAKE THAT FOUR. THE SHEER REPELLANT HIDEOUSNESS OF THIS RETCH-WORTHY FURNITURE IS PLAYING MY QUEASY INTERNAL CLOCK ON HALF-SPEED. I'M GETTING OLDER EVERY MOMENT I'M FORCED TO LOOK AT THE CHAIRS. THESE CHAIRS ARE MAKING ME OLD. ONWARD, TO WAR. HTTPS://CDN.IMGCHEST.COM/FILES/388EDBE6A8DD.PNG




