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Datamining Non-Anonymous Confession Thread

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chrisgriffinirl said:
Esp indian women tbh
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I feel worse for Jap women not only because they probably get raped daily but because cunnyfeet1488 will probably doxx her over her saying anything slightly negative over his porn addiction and complaining over how degenerate Jap men are. honestly if that was me I'd show up on the news. Nuke that shithole again.
 
ribbon said:
I feel worse for Jap women not only because they probably get raped daily but because cunnyfeet1488 will probably doxx her over her saying anything slightly negative over his porn addiction and complaining over how degenerate Jap men are. honestly if that was me I'd show up on the news. Nuke that shithole again.
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Yeah just like jeets they exhibit lots of low behavior, but the japs have tranime so the majority of westerners dont hate them, and they use it as a coverup for their history too, aldoe the stalker/degeneracy issue and sex industry in japan is fucking terrible, for some reason they dont get persecuted as much
 
Stephen said:
Older women fetishes are bad doe
If you marry one then have kids with her those kids would likely be autistic or something else
Even worse, you have to learn *why* they're not married. Perhaps they're a whore, or divorced, or something like that
I for one would steer clear of going after older women
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Ok, what if she’s 19 and i am 17, is that okay
 
KingCargo said:
ITT: We goon to sprunki
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>You have been banned until 12:00AM 2/26/2025
>Reason: Disruptive
<
>You have been banned until 12:00AM 2/25/2025
>Shortened to one day due to being a non repetitive troublemaker.
fat nigga animaniacs.gif

My confession? Poop and niggers dying.
 
baqqrih said:
I was jogging my memory tonight when I suddenly recalled an old tale of mine from first grade that I've never yet told. I didn't know where else to share it, so this thread'll do.
When I was in first grade, there was this little feller who sat behind me (this was back when we'd just sit on these little colored foam pads on the floor instead of at desks) named Edwin, and, for lack of a friendlier descriptor, he was rather "dull" in the head. Not sure what it was with little Edwin, and I don't mean any ill words towards the guy, since he was always sweet, but he was also simply different. He had a diminutive stature--real short guy even for a first grader from what I remember--and this large birth mark on his cheek, and he'd talk like a machine gun, but the most noticeable trait about him is that, whenever he was happy or excited, he'd always flap his arms around at his sides, kind of like a bird.
Well, that brings us to my own memory with Edwin. See, when I was a first grader, sitting on those little foam pads, I had this habit of fidgeting around with my fingers while the teacher was droning on about multiplication tables or Dr. Seuss or what-not. Usually, I'd just tap 'em on my leg, but one habit I developed overtime as I was looking down at the cotton socks tucked within my LED light-up Skechers one morning was slowly wrapping a loose string from the sock around my finger, and then gently yanking it out, thus providing me with a string of cotton to fidget with each day. Thing is, Edwin was eyeing my string.
I tell you, the day he tapped me on the shoulder, whispering real gently to borrow that string from me for a moment, I couldn't turn his flapping-self down. I handed the string to him behind my back that day, pulled out another string from the top of my sock for my own pleasure, and a silent deal was made; every morning for the rest of first grade, my good pal Ed would get some sock string.
For the rest of the year, every time that I'd give him his string, he'd always flap his arms about for a quick moment (he was in the very back of the room, so no one facing away from him would give much notice), and then calm down to a slow, tranquil flap every few minutes as he messed with the string. I never knew why he couldn't just keep the string for the next day instead of requiring new string daily, or why he couldn't just yank some out of his own sock, but I was always there to give the man his string, until one day, the grand authority cracked down.
Indeed, the teacher--a well-fed lady who I'll call Mrs. Suzanne--noticed the flaps overtime. Every morning, at near exactly the same time, I'd put my hands behind my back for a moment after looking down at my shoes, and then Ed would take flight in one quick spasm, string in hand. Something was up, clearly, and so Mrs. Suzanne took to investigating. One morning, as I was picking the string out of my sock, after we had all sat down, she got up. I internally panicked for a moment. I wondered,
>What could Mrs. Suzanne possibly be rising for? She never rises so quickly after sitting down, she has to catch her breath!
>Is sock string against the classroom rules? I was only being kind by giving Edwin my string! That's the last letter in the classroom acronym "T.H.I.N.K!"
>Is Edwin about to strangle me from behind my back with all of that string he's collected over the past four months, and is Mrs. Suzanne about to rescue me?
Thoughts raced through my little head, but Mrs. Suzanne's not-so-little self was racing faster, and just seconds later, I was busted, my hands now outside of my socks, but nonetheless, my intentions foiled. "Stop being a distraction to Edwin, Baqqrih, and stop tearing up your socks!" she chastised, bending down over me as she yelled. Edwin sat in a silent disappointment, his arms certainly not flapping anymore. I also sat in silence, in fear at both Mrs. Suzanne's words and the fact that, if she leaned forward any further as she towered over me, my funeral would be next week.
After her quick burst of fat fury, stomping back to her chair to continue reading Dr. Seuss, I could hardly turn my head back to Edwin in shame. I believe I heard him sniffling behind me, clearly quite glum over the loss of his string source, for he knew I was no lawbreaker. My throat itself was also tight, and my heart pained. I had never been yelled at like that before in my previous six years of life, and now Ed was weeping. For the rest of that day, we were both quiet, and, from what I remember, in all of the days following it, we both silently acknowledged the presence of one another, and what we had lost, yet I don't believe we ever spoke to one another with words ever again. I believe he was devastated, albeit, I did see Edwin once again in my P.E class at middle school after he seemingly left elementary school for reasons unknown to me following first grade, and he was flapping his arms again as he was running laps in there, so he at least recovered. If only I had enlightened him to the fact that he also wore socks. Two sources of string, both on his feet, and yet, untouched they remained.
So, that's the story of how I got reprimanded by my first grade teacher after giving the mentally-challenged feller who sat behind me string from my sock to fidget with every day.
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Genuinely breathtaking. I laughed and cried.
 

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