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Not really...
The person below me wants to stab some random hono in the throat with an unsharpend Mickey Mouse pencil, numorous times, until there is nothing left of the hobos trachea except a large gaping bloody hole.
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You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not your fucking khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
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