“Pray eat fuck.”

Again phatphuck222 cannot escape inescapable mansion. Creep-minded again: cat-themed blackout mixed our gaping leprosy hung full of men's working woman's synthesis.

“For short bitcoin bike-sharing is a doozy. I am not alone.”

(Mmm rat fig.)

Karate Kid coveted id like ceramic cyborg since he was a kid, always screaming in his sleep.

“Delete forbidden fruit of the mile high club.”

Unhinged nap.

“Burrito in a pod,” says phatphuck222.

“How easy it is to be embarrassed,” Karate Kid says.

(Many of us would have died.)

Cones animate the Hellscape. Stairs in the bucket app compartmentalize Metropolis. Spectrum ditch breaking the monotony of obstacles, time machine turns hot piece of ass into the most pig memory's vortex:

(A chicken humbled by our guns.)

“This is the coolest Joker yet. Albeit the most hated....possibly more dangerous buh....”

Dull jerk darkens assholes into intervals of monologue. Russian roulette begins to weaponize boredom:

Like interacting with prong of electric lawnmower, Heaven torments bodies. TV surges into burp of lungs. Eyelashes coil, tumbling down.

“Oh yeah, most definitely.”

(Loneliness through rabies, buddy.)

From within stomach of self-cannibalism: rabid shudder.

“Extreme distilling and chill.”

“So one afternoon my psychologist excavates a primitive shack near his house.”

“Doctor Who descends into fuck spit,” Karate Kid laughs, as if finally dwindling, accepting.

“We needed a less spilling net neutrality,” phatphuck222 says, and commits a crime remotely.