• Happy pride month, xisters of the schlog!

How come incels always talk about how women have it so easy

Bro I am rubbing it bro
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A substantial box descended upon my visage, subsequently leading to an unsettling dream wherein I envisioned inflicting harm upon myself. I perceived the projectile traverse through my cranium, yet I remained conscious. In a moment of desperation, I attempted to consume my own urine, which was reminiscent of regurgitation. I then found myself curled up upon the floor, only for my world to fade to black, at which point the visage of a puppy wieder appeared. Upon awakening, I discovered myself amidst a pool of frigid vomit, embodying a grotesque, developmentally challenged infant in dire need of affection. Regrettably, I was enshrouded in vomit and bore the odor of canine excrement, as the dog had relieved itself upon me during my unconsciousness. Each instance when my girlfriend experiences menstruation, I am compelled to distance myself, as her blood evokes a profound sense of revulsion—its hue and texture instigate nausea within me. Despite my near illiteracy, I find solace in my virility, yet I harbor a belief that I may be afflicted with meningitis. I am unable to consume peanut butter, as it defies the process of swallowing, remaining lodged in my mouth akin to a creamy, crunchy parasite. Moreover, I find myself incessantly conversing with my own reflection, in a fit of agitation seizing a cooking implement and brandishing it while vociferating my disdain for a particular individual who regards themselves as exceptionally admirable. I also suffer a phobia of cucumbers and perpetually sense unseen hands prodding me, leading to further instances of vomiting, now resulting in Captain Crunch scattered upon the linoleum, while the dog eagerly devours it. Additionally, I am persistently haunted by the sound of whistling and my phone's incessant vibrations.
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