Dumot
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I hate it. Like the last kiss from a scorned one-nighter. Like the walls of inch-thick dirt that have been there for 14 years. Redundant conversations in a basement that echo for months on end. A staircase with old, stinky wood. Prime time kabobohan. 4-day old socks. Reflective surfaces in moments of discomfort. Blood all the wrong places. A painful gut. And just like the pain of process-oriented frustration, I hate it.
Liked Dumot? Here’s where I’d start.
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