• Trolls hide treasure, #amiright?

    My mother told me that whenever I found fault in others, it was probably a fault with which I was intimately familiar. She used to say that we find our own warts on other people because it’s more comfortable than looking in the mirror.

    Like so many of us, my mother was full of advice she rarely took.

    But I still think about her words a lot these days, as talk of trolls and canceling unspools online. The trick of the successful troll (I’ve, ahem, heard…) is to find something that everyone agrees the victim does and that everyone knows is wrong and then keep bringing up this problem over and over and over again any time our victim tries to do something else or, Google forbid, tries to fix the flaw upon which the troll has fixated. 

    We are our worst selves for a troll at all times and for all time.

    Yet we need the trolls, we do.

    Without the trolls, we too easily forget how dull and ordinary we are and thus how much we mess up. In ancient times, when a young hunter had his or her (or their) first kill, the village used to line up and savagely mock the poor kid to remind everyone that failure is a given even when we think we’ve killed it. Humility was built into the social fabric because, without help, humility is the first aspect of human nature to go extinct. No man is an island, but when a man lacks humility, it’s probably because he’s been isolated (or he’s been isolating) from others a wee bit too long.

    That said, trolls are just like any other tool in social warfare – they can build up or break down, depending upon how they are deployed. In weak moments, the devious little devils can work their way into the very core of who we are. Trolls can convince us to give up on changing our corrupt, evil nature, or trolls can persuade us to just accept that we are our worst selves and dedicate what life we have left to furthering our nefarious plans, or trolls can tell us that we need to end it and let everyone carry on without us.


    And most healthy people, believe it or not, spend some time in the trenches with the trolls. After all, shit makes the best fertilizer. We can use it to grow, and, if we do, ça vaut le coup.

    We should never fully get rid of the trolls. We should just make our peace with them, and appreciate the (not painless) growth that they can stimulate.

    Nice platitude, right? 

    At one point in my EU office, a certain pretty lady got a nice permanent position, complete with all the glory and stability of eurocrat middle management. We were all shocked by her arrival. No one even knew that there had been an opening.

    Turns out, there hadn’t been. At least, not one that doesn’t invite dirty jokes.

    Yes, the lady had successfully slept her way into the European Commission. And the married man who oversaw us all was the one that had spearheaded the whole charade. He wanted to have his wife and keep his mistress too, and when it got too expensive, he got the taxpayers to foot the bill directly.

    I can’t tell you how much tea we spilled over this poor woman, who did do her job, even if it had been manufactured. Though as soon as she was able, she maneuvered her way into a parallel position in a Directorate where her personal history was a bit less popular. 

    I was enjoying a sense of moral superiority while sharing this gossip with a colleague when she reminded me of a gorgeous girl we graduated university with. 

    This lovely lady was at the top of our class, fluent in five languages, two Masters degrees, class treasurer and she was possibly the most beautiful girl any of us had ever seen in real life. She came from an EU-adjacent country and it was her goal in life to build a career her parents could retire on. 

    We went to all the same interviews, but her offers (which always came first) were always two to three times lower than ours. In five out of seven interviews, the interviewer actually invited her out – “no EU boyfriend yet?” one particularly self-confident douchebag (or is that redundant?) straight up asked her. When she finally got a job, as an intern in a company where I vouched for her (despite having a CV that paled in comparison) a female colleague pointed out, “yes, but she’s just here for the VISA, right?” 

    This talented and tireless bombshell finally went back go get her PhD and eventually married her thesis professor (he was about twenty years her senior – a persistent and patient academic if there ever was one.) She’s now paying for her brother’s kids to go to private school to give them a leg up in the job market. 

    Hope springs eternal. 

    A haiku: 

    The shit we talk re: 

    others too often smelleth

    All too familiar.

  • Sacred cows make the best burgers

    It has been frequently brought to my attention that I enjoy poking fun at the British. And it is weird, I agree – I mean I have English relatives in my family. Real English types too, with the plummy accent that I don’t have because I didn’t marry my cousin. 

    The fact is I also have Irish relatives and, for everyone who already knows, prior to the English deciding to eff over the whole of the non-white world (along with the Spanish and Portuguese who, true to form, decided to split their winnings and take a siesta after only getting half the job done), the British cut their imperialistic fangs on the Irish. Ireland, for lack of a better metaphor, was the young UK’s Ukraine – they never managed to destroy it, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

    I should point out the British did initially begin their attempts at world domination with the French. But the French are like that drunk homeless guy on the metro who every so often bites his own balls. After some limited interaction, any sane individual moves on. No matter how good the wine, it’s simply not worth it.  

    Of course after centuries of killing each other with the Irish maintaining their existence through sheer Catholicism (make the babies, make the babies…and before you come after me for this joke – this is the actual mandate of the Catholic leadership, and they are not joking despite the fact that most of them claim to be celibate…which makes it funnier….) the two nations are now (ostensibly) friends. 

    Well…they are not enemies. 

    That is…they haven’t bombed each other since the eighties. 

    It’s all very new, historically speaking.

    But so far it’s been working #thanksDerryGirls. 

    This trajectory gives me hope for humanity as long as we keep in mind the lessons of history which is that behind every winner is a bunch of losers who usually never asked to play. 

    Which brings us to the tangled issue of European defense. What is it? Who does it? For which countries? And more importantly, who pays for it? 

    No, I’m asking. I don’t know. Nobody does. 

    We can’t leave it to the Americans. They think Chekhov’s gun is a public policy, not a literary device. (Shows how much they read…)

    We could put the British in charge if they hadn’t left. They’re heartless bastards when it comes to war, so one might rather be on their side than not, but they’ve let themselves go in the last few decades. (Or did the Irish just wear them down? Yeah, in our dreams…) Plus the UK is, as mentioned, no longer technically European (as if they ever were…)

    There’s Germany, but the Germans scared the sh!t out of everybody, even themselves, in World War 1 and again in World War 2, so they are not anxious to reignite that dark part of their history again. 

    France? I refer you to paragraph three. 

    The Italians? Yeah, I laughed even as I typed it. They can’t even agree on a single language what with all their dialects. I’d sooner hire the mafia (waaaait a minute….)

    Spain? Well, as with the Italians there is a language issue. Being that Spain doesn’t have a language. Despite having given one of the globe’s most spoken languages their national name, inside Spain, one must carefully refer to Spanish as “Castellano” or a Catalan or Basque will crawl out of the nearest bar and pelt you with paella. It’s true, it happened to my amigo. 

    I guess that leaves Poland or the Netherlands. Shots all around followed by a lot of water. 

    Insert the piss joke of your choice here. 

  • Supreme

    You know what? Fuck this more females in leadership. That doesn’t help. How’s about more men in women’s work? Let’s have a quota for male nurses or teachers or receptionists? Screw female CEOs. More stay at home dads NOW.

  • Karma’s a b!tch

    Let’s talk karma. She’s my nail technician.

    Oh, and she is made up, too. I bite my nails down to the cuticles like any other basic b!tch these days. Realizing you lack real power and control and that none of your leadership have any concrete interest in your welfare will do that to you.

    Which brings us to office politics.

    In any office, there is an explicit and implicit hierarchy. The boss generally requires regular appeasement and the illusion of security. The people around him (or, occasionally, her) derive their power from how well they reinforce the boss’s bubble and, infrequently, how well they have done their job, at least recently. 

    Personal anecdote time. And I don’t make this sh!t up (or do I?)

    While working in the EU, I had great bosses and I had delusional bosses (well, we are all a little delusional…except for me of course. I’m God. Nietzche said so. Or was it Descartes…) One boss that I had straddled the line a la Devil Wears Prada (which she totally wore.) She wasn’t terrible and she wasn’t wonderful, but she was extremely attached to her idea of Who she was. She wanted us all in on it, you see.

    The day she started as a Director (minimum salary of at least 12 k euros, untaxed) she was heralded as a working mum success story. She had umpteen children (mostly boys! What a lady!) and had understandably taken a career break to raise these rambunctious rascals but now she was back, no civil service exam necessary because she was that good.

    I’m not the only one who makes sh!t up, see.

    Her hubby was a high-level director himself in his family business.

    Which was..monopoly X for industry X. For an entire country. Let me be clear: hubby and his family ran industry X unopposed for an entire EU country. Politicians are salivating reading this – that they could so easily grasp power from the cradle!

    Did I mention that at the time I worked in what was DG X (or its equivalent)? That’s the X Directorate for the whole of the EU.

    Now, I thought I was being punked (having a practical joke played on me, for you non-initiates) when I was asked to weigh in on the Director’s amazing success story. Listen, I don’t care that she’s well-connected or already rich. I get it: we use what we have to float and a select few of us are born on freaking yachts. You do you, Princess Elizabeth, and the rest of us will eat our hearts out with envy.

    But don’t present yourself as some sort of working woman’s hero. Own your privilege in public, b!tch. Don’t expect me to act like you were just that good. People opened doors for you. You walked through them on your own two legs, but your struggle is not mine so don’t ask me to buy in.

    A famous Black police officer in the USA has worked on structural racism for decades, years before it was… let’s say universally popular in a more, er, hopefully, more progressive way. He has this general advice to offer whenever asked. He says that basically fifteen percent of all cops are principled and community-oriented no matter what. Another 15 percent are assholes, out for themselves. The remaining seventy percent can go either way, depending on leadership.

    Depending on leadership.

    The cop/racism expert doesn’t mention background or salesmanship or suggest that an exceptional personal story makes the (wo)man. He zeroes in on principled leadership.

    I don’t care if you got dealt a nice hand. Mine is pretty great too. We will both have opportunities and make mistakes influenced by our sociocultural cards. So let’s do our best to acknowledge our origins, as much as we can, and not to force others to embrace the narrative we saw on Instagram somewhere because it makes us feel like we “deserve” to be here.

    The idea that anyone “deserves” anything is the real illusion. 

    Just accept we are here and be a stoic servant to the public. Do what you can with what you have where you are.

    Anything less will be karm-media-c fodder for the gossip mill. 

    Nailed it. 

    I’m a punny pill…

  • EUr Lairds ‘n Laidies

    Aside from the fact that getting to work for the EU is a coveted honor reserved for those with the time and insider knowledge required to patiently wrangle their way into increasingly rare positions, the pay is ridiculous.

    The average salary in Brussels, when you remove taxes, is apparently around three thousand a month. This fact surprises this b!tch given I never broke a mensual 2 thousand in Belgium. Obviously, I sold low (and still will if anyone wants to invite me for a drink?)

    Let’s get back to these EU fuckers.

    Top-drawer Eurocrat take-home pay can reach fifteen to twenty thousand euros a month, not counting any additional “benefits” like great healthcare, private schooling, travel, and ex-pat payouts (also no taxes because that would be stupid since it’s taxes that make up the EU salaries. You don’t pay yourself, silly!) Most of this money goes to people with great connections and elite education. A less than-surprising amount makes it into the pockets of the always-dying-but-never-dead (inbred hemophilic vampires!) European nobility.

    Nobility, for those that don’t read the tabloids, is when people have families that are technically as old as your family but probably had ancestors who screwed over (literally and figuratively) your ancestors in a bid to accumulate the most wealth, land, women – you know, the most stuff. 

    If we are speaking in Darwinian terms of ‘evolution’ (that is, in the literal rather than the metaphorical sense of evolving) so-called ‘nobles’ wanted to perpetuate more of their genes than yours. In this sense, you beat them, even if you didn’t win. Basically, noblesse oblige straight-up means inbreeding with an economic incentive. It’s genetic capitalism-turned-oligarchy.

    So basically European nobility is made up of our rich, ne’er do well cousins who refuse to share their generationally hoarded spoils with the rest of us. And an outsized number of them now hold European government positions that let them tithe us poor bastards…er, rather, the bastard descendants. 

    It’s the modern futile system.

    While working in an EU office once, I got a visit from my civil servant boss in which he informed me that the future Duke or Vicomte of Somewhere or Something was ‘interning’ amongst the plebs that day and if we were so fortunate as to run into him and his entourage, we were to cast our eyes toward the carpet and call him Your Royal Highness’ and under no circumstances were we to ask him to fetch our coffee, even in jest. Having never interned for the EU, I can only assume the pre-Duke’s stipend was laughably small compared to his perks.

    I was not allowed to meet the Vicomte that day – and I camped out in the building’s cafeteria, paparazzi-style, in hopes of doing so.

    He must’ve skipped lunch that day.

    My point is, eurocrats of the older variety are occasionally overpaid and underwhelming (when they even show up – I was so disappointed), save for their exceptional personal privileges, which are to go unmentioned in polite company (I assume.)

    This brings us to the crux of the issue: the perpetuation of unequal access to political power. This is an area I know fairly well, having lived in the US of A. Nobody knows how to construct a radically unfair social structure quite as quickly as Uncle Sam. (Those Americans – so efficient!)

    That said, the European system is older and the roots run deeper and no amount of financial investment can rip them out. The only way to kill our nobility (no, not that way, you Jacobin) is to deprive them of the sun we so happily bestow upon them.

    Your Highness, seriously. 

    If only I could have gotten him to autograph my copy of Hello.

    Selfish git.

  • Wheu is worthwhile?

    There is so much talk in the Brussels bubble about inequality – all sorts of inequality, economic, social, gender, and racial. It’s really #trending these days, and I am here to explain it all to you. 

    Yeah, you’re welcome in advance. 

    So #inequality. 

    It all comes down to whether a person is profitable or valuable, and these are moving concepts because, you know, the EU mobility pillar and whatnot. 

    So what is profitable and what is valuable? (Or rather who is profitable and who is valuable?)

    Profitable means you are worth profit (money) and valuable means you are intrinsically worthwhile (no money.) 

    How does that work out IRL? (IRL = ‘in real life,’ for you old geezers…good job finding this blog, btdubs, ten points if you can figure out how to comment and, no, I won’t read it)

    Well, it’s really about how you are treated. For example, if you’ve been asked by a supervisor to ‘add value’ but there was no corresponding increase in salary, you are being treated as valuable. If you have an investment portfolio or are actively renting second or third properties (or you just have second and third properties sitting around “in case”), you are treated as profitable. If you were born without a bank account, you are valuable. If you were born already flush with cash (i.e. your parents – or parent – weren’t struggling to budget your appearance into their monthly grocery bill), you are valuable. If you are working with software that costs more than your total net worth, you are valuable but not profitable (this often applies to interns or secretaries…er…. assistants?)

    Of course, there are different levels of value and profit and these can change over time (#mobility.)

    If you are a pretty young thing (preferably with white skin, but that is changing because #progress) you are often treated as profitable (think other people buy you alcohol when you go out.) But as you get older and require more ironing, you become less profitable and more valuable (for example, you have to buy your own drinks.) If you work in a career that machines can do now, you are increasingly valuable (but not profitable.) If you choose to reproduce the species, you immediately descend in profitability, particularly if you start to prioritize the well-being of these inadvisable economic drains of a decision over the financial wellbeing of your immediate professional supervisor and his cronies. However, in making such a choice, you frequently find yourself asked to ‘add value’ without any corresponding increase in salary, so you are choosing to become more valuable (but you will still have to buy your own drinks because you come with #baggage.) 

    A lot of ‘profitable’ and ‘valuable’ has to do with proximity as well. If you were born with access to property, you get to begin life as profitable. If you weren’t, we, um, value you – you are inherently, intangibly worthwhile, okay? If you work with children or clean things, you are probably more valuable than profitable. If you work with money or with penises, you are most likely more profitable than valuable. If you took a test to get your job, you are profitable – valuable people don’t have the time or money to spend on tests (and/or test preparation.)

    This can be confusing initially when you apply value vs. profitability to positions of public service – I mean, public service is supposed to be overall valuable, not profitable, right?


    The same rules of proximity tend to apply. Do you work with kids? You are valuable but not profitable. Do you work with penises? If the penises socialize with you without expecting you to make the coffee, you are profitable.

    There is also the rule of think versus do. If you spend most of your time in a public service position thinking rather than doing, you are probably profitable. If a lot of your worth is tied up in your peer group and networking, you are probably profitable. If you are mobile in your social connections and you spend a lot of time doing things rather than just thinking about them, you are probably more valuable than profitable.

    Profitability vs. value is a much more accurate and flexible framework by which to measure inequality than how many of X are managers versus not managers and how much Y is paid versus not paid. That sort of thinking is very fixed because it is position-based whereas, let’s face it, for many individuals, for good or ill, inequality is often really not about your position so much as your perspective. 

    What is it that German dude with crazy hair said? No problem can be solved from the same level of BS that created it. I’m paraphrasing.

    “My first love was Cinderella, but she ran off with another man.”
  • Does Putin prefer pink?

    Ukraine is happening and it is awful and donate and house refugees and all that.

    In more personal hypotheses, and I just want to float this out there in all its inappropriate glory – do you think Putin is a closeted homosexual whose greatest fear is us finding out that not only is he a submissive bottom in his most recurrent fantasies, but that all the oligarchs are actually his harem and the wealth that he shares with them are a means of maintaining sexual secrecy?

    Think about it. The bloody bloke is a walking warning on the dangerous limitations of what we now call toxic masculinity. You don’t post all those doctored shirtless photos unless you are trying to convince yourself of your own fake image. And he keeps pretending to sex up younger and younger women – and we all know the sexual experience of younger women is not necessarily what recommends them. It’s the social status eye candy. You date pretty young things so others think you’re “the man” not because you are seeking private sexual satisfaction. Virgins are not paid for a reason. You have to be an old whore-slut like me to earn a salary in the boudoir (and I am closed for business, resting on my laurels, as it were – not as comfortable as it sounds, actually.)

    So that’s my two cents. The dude has it bad for the dick, but he was culturally stymied in his public pursuit so he went dark, like, real dark, and to keep everything under wraps he found the most butch men he could, paid them handsomely to stay quiet and cycled through a series of beards (those pretty young things) until he just lost it in his old age and decided to emulate arguably the biggest dick of them all, Josef Stalin.

    Should I be poisoned and/or disappeared, you know I’m right. 

  • What the Swiss Miss

    Whenever the Swiss claim neutrality, Moses snickers.

    You don’t get that rich in a World War if you are neutral. In World War II, the Swiss were essentially the “All lives matter” movement of the antisemitic wave of the 1940s. Sure, the Swiss can claim that they didn’t kill anybody outright but they never asked where all that gold suddenly came from either. 

    But the Swiss treat their history like Grandpa rejecting Heidi in their seminal (snicker) national story – she’s the kid they didn’t want and like to pretend does not exist and the old bastard would be fine, at least initially, if the five-year-old orphan Heidi fell off a cliff and was eaten by goats with no one the wiser. Grandpa’s original reaction to Heidi is basically, so I f*cked somebody and now I have to take care of a kid? What am I, a woman?

    Unfortunately, unlike Heidi, most national histories are not cheerful, persistent goody-goodies that we all eventually learn to love (unless you’re English – and such public self-love is nothing if not pornographic. Put your willies away, you pale bastards!)

    National histories, particularly for consistent victors, is, to quote Hobbes, “nasty, brutish, and short” (here I could be referring to the Italians or the English – they are surprisingly similar in empire-ical stereotypes.) We ain’t none of us neutral and if we are not dead, we probably had ancestors who made ethically dubious choices, even more so if we are financially solvent. And don’t get me started on the rich – capitalism is built on exploitation. Even Kim Kardashian, a feminist icon and #girlboss of unquestionable credentials, inherited a lot of her original capital from her dad, a “successful” religious refugee who made bank off getting a wife-beater out of jail for allegedly going a bit too far and unintentionally providing our illustrious American media the opportunity to further exploit racial, gender, social, and economic divisions and sell a sh*t ton of tabloids.

    And now Kim sells make-up and confidence on an image-obsessed platform owned largely by an American Jewish man who has publicly defended the free speech of Holocaust deniers.

    “It’s complicated” does not begin to cover our modern context. 

    But back to the colorful mountain people who, collectively, do their best to keep their love of color restricted to the fabric of their crazy military uniforms (seriously, wouldn’t a bullseye on your chest cost less? But then, you do have the money, as I mentioned earlier…) I was not so recently on a train coming back from Zurich, home to the rich and infamous as well as the rich and indifferent (amazing how often those overlap), when I was told, proudly, by a Swiss citizen who was not indifferent, that I could take my mask off because “this [is] Switzerland.”

    So I did, and now I have COVID. Correlation – not causation, if you ask the Swissman whose PhD in Facebook makes him the real expert. (Thanks again, Zuck. Do I sense an underlying conspiracy to punish the country that profited off your tribe with such blatant denial? Bit passive-aggressive, but I guess that’s the Insta brand…no hearts today for you!)

    When I heard “this is Switzerland” I had to chuckle. I mean, the Swiss are the most conflicted bisexuals of the EU ever since the British brexited. (More on that in last week’s post.) And, like all conservatives, they refuse to accept that their discomfort may come from within – any issues the Swiss encounter in their interactions with foreign elements must be imposed by those from outside the Swiss borders. It’s not that the Swiss don’t accept the EU and its ever-present complications, it’s that the EU fails to accept Switzerland in all its complicated simplicity. The Swiss want in, but they want to be able to opt-out. They subscribed and made a profile, all for free, but they still want the EU to ensure all Swiss plausible deniability when it comes to anything that they may post on EUr platform.

    I believe it was Zuck who admitted (and I’m paraphrasing) that, it’s like, even in journeys like EU Facebook, we’ve had some very serious ups and downs…

    Cuz gossip is purely entertainment…or is it?

  • hello, l’EUsers

    Soon it’ll be the anniversary of some aspect of Brexit so let’s be frank. Did anyone else feel a cool breeze of smug satisfaction waft across the Chunnel as those hoity-toity English made like Henry VIII and divorced their long-suffering continental bride? It’s not like they ever consummated the marriage – the Brits came up with excuse after excuse to avoid really committing to l’Europe.


    I’m sure it’ll be even more fun to revisit Brexit once those Monty Python re-enactors do a sketch about the whole thing. Maybe they’ll redo that bit where they cut off the body parts of a knight who keeps shouting “I’ve got enough money – I don’t need that subsidy!” in an indecipherable Cornish accent. Then the stump of a corn-man (dare I call him a corn cob-like) will hop off and use his mouth to graffiti “Go home – no second home” on the gates of some beautiful Cornwall beach chateau owned by a London-based laird working in the City who has dual citizenship from when his inbred dad finally married that pregnant Spanish mistress – only after the third divorce, mind you – so, really, Brexit hasn’t affected our sweet laird in the least (unlike the unfortunate Cornball.)

    And of course, the laird’s children-of-the-local-Corn housekeeper will be sure to wash off any aggressive graffiti before said laird brings his own continental mistress out for a seaside bank holiday. It may sound corny, but salt air makes Londoners horny – especially the rich ones. Which, if we are being frank, are the only Londoners who can afford to visit the beach.

    Or to Brexit.

    Ha. That was a joke – banks don’t take holidays. They just shutter their doors once every few months so the rich can count their gold in peace. 

    But back to la blessed noblesse. Henry’s divorce, Harry’s conscious uncoupling (with the monarchy, not his American bride), and of course that Brexit hoo-ha (look at me speaking French what with the double entendres and all…) Then, of course, the British PM, a Mr. BJ, found out he had another kid he’d never acknowledged. (One wonders if Mr. BJ could have avoided the whole débâcle if he’d just stuck to the suggestion of his acronym…) 

    It was almost like no one quite knew what they were doing or had done, but they were too busy carrying on to stop. If you ask me (and no one did), Brexit was the moment to release the Hounslow documents – you know, all those scary tits and tats that brave little public service peckers of the former Empire kept as a memento of all the terrible-awful-scary crimes against humanity the glorious United Kingdom perpetrated as a means of enriching itself (or rather its traditional leadership) through the four centuries or so that those limeys carried the white man’s burden hither and yon? 

    Hither and yon are ye old English. Which is to say, they are probably Dutch.

    Fecking immigrants. 

    Meanwhile what really gripped the English nation was the gold-digging American actress who used oedipal tricks (his mother’s perfume – how could she? It was almost like it was mass-produced) to ensnare the ginger prince. To be honest, I was on her side when she left the finely feathered nest – flew the coup d’État, if you wish. The woman descends from survivors of the mid-Atlantic slave trade. The ancestors of the father of her children teamed up with the City of London mercenaries – er, merchants – to productively sell the bulk of the human stock (that which didn’t die en route, which, to be frank again, was most of them) to the Americas and make bank off their misery and trauma. If the foreign princess fleeces the lot of the English crown, it’s possibly the slowest moving form of vengeance in the history of the world, but all the more power to her. If she does end up on the British throne, at least they’ll know they’ve got another queen who understands long-term strategy.

    What was I saying? Something about entrenched inequality and Brexit, something to do with London and the rural and urban poor and national heritage, as the French say…I believe the French had a similar issue but they went about solving it slightly differently, but that’s a story for another day. 

    If I’m just too subtle for you, TLDNR (too long did not read) my point is #megxit.

    Hey, I just vomit the words – you consume them… 

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