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I spent Monday asleep in efforts to recover from this. Now today I’m in school and made the foolish mistake of trusting a fart. When it was in fact, a shart. I’m typing this from the bathroom stall while I wait for the person ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ next to me to leave because I’m too embarrassed that I just had to flush my underwear down the toilet.
If I was a sickly peasant boy designated by the aristocracy to carry messages back and fourth for pennies and you found me outside the city walls with a deep wound in my chest from a musket ball and a letter clutched in my hand and I told you my last dying wish was to have someone read the letter to me so I know that I died for something important and you open it up and you find a single large illustration diagram of an onion would you tell me what it was? What would you say to me?
-hooves click on bar floor-