Five nickels. I might finally get to take my poor little dusty crusty rusty self down to the store and get a single piece of candy. Jolly day.
anything but eating a sufficient amount of food huh?
Wrothe. What is it, buddy? Do you want me to actually put a hit out on you? Do you want me to keep embarrassing you? Are you not tired of moseying your way into a comment section with me and bowing out quietly with just a hit to the hate react? At the end of the day, Wrothe, I keep saying it. No one is going to give a single fuck when you die. Your superiors will move on, the market will keep marketing, and another sad pathetic excuse for an indigo will take your place. Even your delightful lusus will move on. The only thing that will be left of you is your embarrassing digital step-print. And do you know the picture it paints? A sad little fucking loser nobody who would happily eat the shit from anyone with CEO in their chittr bio. No one takes you seriously, you're a fucking loser.
And I know long sentences and big paragraphs scare you, so let me put it to you very bluntly, I hope you die. Stop chitting on company time. Your superiors are watching.
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Yeah, that's what I thought you would say. Go on ahead and go fuck yourself while staring at pictures of people stronger and cooler than you.