Last night was session two of my weird dreams where I go through my life being haunted by the ghost of seteven Chowder, who killed himself trying to shame his wife into getting back together (he threatened suicide and accidentally forgot his gun was loaded when she called his bluff).
It's like when you imagine your inner critic being a teenager on COD to infantilize it. But its a grown man throwing slurs at the cheap cigar he can't smoke, on account of being fucking dead.
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