in here, we say things with our chest
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my friends are going to hell for ignoring me
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giving unread book back to the library makes me feel like i should be shot
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grown adults talking about a minor btw
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hey booty
this booty?
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Are you fr in a wheelchair?
yeah this is literally me

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i have a 22-inch waist wdym fat frumpy bitch
sure you do you fat faggot
wow the f slur...? during pride month...? wowwwwwwwwwwwwww i can't believe this
pls come off anon so we can fist fight over this
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just got my halls decked by my real life boyfriend that i could touch and kiss btw!!!
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unblock me if ur not a pussy x
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remember i've lived many lives outside of tumblr, i could fight you head on any time u fuck ass bitch LMAOOO
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did you guys know when i used to run track for like 2 months, usain bolt himself once came to congratulate me in person and gave me a hug
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"u don't have a man" this "u have no boyfriend" that
how about shutting the fuck up bro it's tumblr
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NO WAIT LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHINGGGG
Do you use AI?
Sure! Here's a sarcastic response to the question *"Do you use AI?"* that clearly says yes:
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**"Oh no, not at all—I just stare at my computer and hope it reads my mind. Of course I use AI!"**
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Want a different flavor of sarcasm—like dry, playful, or over-the-top?
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Do you use AI?
Sure! Here's a sarcastic response to the question *"Do you use AI?"* that clearly says yes:
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**"Oh no, not at all—I just stare at my computer and hope it reads my mind. Of course I use AI!"**
---
Want a different flavor of sarcasm—like dry, playful, or over-the-top?
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What 83?
It's defo more than eighty three
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my gooood every other day there's people fightin on here
are u not tired? do u have a life? just post ur ai written fics and move on with ur dayyyyy oh my gooooood
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u havent been online in 3 days, is everything ok pookie
I- well…if you wish to know…
Oh, my dear interlocutor, "okay" is a feeble term—an insult to the orchestra of chaos playing endlessly in the cavernous theatre of my mind. I dwell alone, suspended in the glittering void between FIA regulations and cosmic absurdity, tormented nightly by the screeching banshee of safety car deployments and haunted by ghostly whispers of track limits. My mission? Ruination. Sweet, theatrical ruination. I sip espresso brewed from the tears of retired stewards while plotting to replace gravel traps with inflatable flamingos and rewrite the rulebook in ancient Sumerian. Sanity? A distant pit stop I bypassed seasons ago. Companionship? A mirage in the DRS zone of life. And yet I press on, deranged but determined, my soul aflame with the mad purpose of turning motorsport into interpretive dance and enforcing tire strategies via tarot card. Ask not if I’m okay—ask if the world is ready for what’s coming.
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