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Chest is king. I train it every day. Left pec’s bigger, right one bounces harder. Arms? Big. Real big. Tris hang low, bis peak high. Shoulders round like cannonballs. My back? Wide. Can’t see it, but people move when I walk by. Quads thick. Calves pop. Pants hate me. Abs? In there somewhere. Don’t care. Neck’s gone—traps took it. I lift hard, eat fast, sleep heavy. Then I do it again. Dudes stare in the gym, ask what I curl, ask if they can touch. I let ’em. Feels fuckin' great. I live off that—worship, awe, the looks, the gasps, the moans, sticky gropin'. Some say I’m too big, too dumb, too much. Good. I’m not for everyone. I’m for the mirror, the pump, and the ones who can’t look away.
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You want me to fill up your whole kitchen with my mass? Be careful what you wish for.
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It's a little cartoony, but I like how we get that sexy muscle daddy's pecs satisfyingly ballooned:
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Hyper muscle Carl. We retired the faulty Insan-o-Flex for this Insanal Pump. More efficient for extreme growth.
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