was it casual when i sat in your lap in public? was it casual when i said "recently my heart is crying because you're leaving"? was it casual when we decided how your last name would fit with mine? ("yuki tsunoda-gasly" / "no tsunoda, only gasly" / "yuki gasly?") was it casual when we sang adele's "someone like you" together at your going away party? was it casual when i knew it was you just by touching your ass? was it casual when i knew it was you by smell alone? was it casual when "will you miss me?" / "for 2-3 minutes maybe" / "i'll take that. even if it's just 2-3 minutes, i'll take that"? was it casual when that bus was completely empty and we still sat right next to each other, all the way in the back? was it casual when i picked you up multiple times so you could dunk a basketball? was it casual when i begged to come over to your house multiple time and then you finally let me and we cooked fried rice together? was it casual when we played christmas twister together and i said "your big eggplant is touching my ass"? was it casual when we were pressed up against each other on a scooter going two miles per hour? was it casual when-
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sorry also what we're NOT gonna do is some conspiratiorial "it was staged" shit. there is no evidence and it is far far far more likely that a person independent decided to shoot him than it is that Donald J. Trump or any of his associates sat down and said "hey. you know what we need right now? for a guy to shoot our presidential nominee, who is already extremely popular, in the head but not so in the head that he dies." that simply did not happen and it is wild to seriously suggest otherwise. be fucking for real
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slutshame? no no, slutsupport. slutpride.
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Dios Apate minor part 2
—God had just picked up the Saint of Joy bodily and sat her at the edge of the table, and the Saint of Patience had his mouth at God's neck, which was horrible—
2024 Painted over since the faces were bothering me, original below!
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a series of fundamental tragedies:
he makes a clone of himself. it’s born screaming and dies screaming. he decides he’s simply never going to think of it again. he doesn’t.
he makes a clone of himself. it speaks of being from hell; it speaks of being the worst of him. he defeats it and destroys the machine. sometimes he remembers it, but he’s too busy running away from everything else, too, to really care.
the world is nothing but clones of him, if he thinks about it, which is frightening, so he doesn’t think of a cast made entirely of versions of himself at all until one cuts off his arm. then he won’t stop dreaming about it.
he meets a clone of himself; it’s not worth questioning from where. he’s met it time after time; it calls itself evil, but it’s mostly just a nuisance. then, one day, it’s not, and the scars still run down his arms. lichtenberg figures look like tattoos if the viewer doesn’t know any better, and it’s not like he knew he’d actually be evil this time. it’s always been a game before.
she’s not sure who makes who. she’s not sure who survives. only one of them makes it, and she makes sure everyone else forgets. it’s really for the better.
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