Hey permanent sleepover victim at the halfway house, Nobody gives a fuck about you, even the roaches crawling around in your room. So instead of trying to quote me, the fucking GOAT, go brush the teeth in your asshole, your boyfriends crying into his limp wrist about the chafing and the cost it takes to replace the plungers he's used to try and suction them out. I told him to just use the stick end next time and push down really, really hard.
This fucking imbeciles idea for maid service is running down a hallway, jumping on the handle ass first on the vacuum, then riding around the carpet like a fucking human dirt devil.
I'm not here putting newspaper down in every thread for you to shit on. Go look at every fucking thread you've made that sinks quicker then you in front of a gloryhole and come to the realization that nobody either reads you, or doesn't want to scratch a bald patch on their head trying to decipher whatever illiterate riddle your trying to convey if there isn't a cash prize attached.
You type in fucking mumbles. Seriously your the poster child of failure in the same vain as a washed up rapper high off his ass in an interview for Vlad TV without the fucking fame. If my shit, my actual fecal matter, could talk, it would make more sense then you.
Go back to your meth pipe, bruh. It will do you more good then me continually stepping on your face with both feet wearing spiked track shoes and doing deep squats over, and over, and over...