We all live in our own bubble.
At this point, what difference does it make whether, I got my peanut butter in your chocolate or you got your chocolate in my peanut butter?
I can’t really answer this question in a way that will satisfy the curiosity of your Punyling mind without, I don’t know, sounding like a real dick, or something. Testing out right now.
Some are just cozier than others.
Totes. Now, listen, something important: somebody activated Me. I’m sitting in the can and I’ve got chatter ripping through the Lambo Node like you wouldn’t even know. It’s breathtaking, I can assure you.
This could be because I haven’t eaten a solid meal in about 12 days. Or it could be, because my last meal was thrown on the floor right before my eyes eight or nine times. It would be difficult to pin down these figures.
I’m gonna call the Sheriff now. Just as soon as I wash my hands after finishing wiping my ass. It’s the
polite thing to do. Alternately, I’ve been given the option of becoming a Sourceror again. (Note the spelling, Ladies, & Gents: Make away. Big way. Big way. Make away for the emperor.)
I’m already sitting down. I’m already thinking it over. If anybody out there is done rotting in {gerund:profane} Hell, give a Knigge a holler. And if it weren’t for the fucking iPhone, I would capitalize this whole thing correctly and turn your entire global surface into butterscotch pudding.
Don’t think I can’t do it. I’m just lazy. End of line