Satiating you bloghoes and cutie-patooties for now with this appetizer. I'm prepping a fairly large fetish pasta (tasty) for my feminine patrons. Sounds delicious—but at what cost? If my blog was (is) a restaurant, and you delicate matrons were waiting this long for your entrée, and it never came—
Then you'd probably leave. But you're stickin' around because you trust that—you're just addicted to em dashes. Em splashed all over my shitty wall of prose. Where were we? Stop paragraphing and start planning to prepare this party post for print. This thing will be fridge-material for all the families that have adopted me over the years.
Whoops. It just kind of just happened. Dedicated to my great friends over the years, including: Dave S, Angelo C, Warren R, Ryan C, and Jim from Accounting. Also dedicated to the girl in the comments section that never comments: you are appreciated. I know you're there, and I know my work has saved you from pulling that fateful trigger. Yes, I am a hero—but you are too (you're not btw). Simply by existing (by wasting precious space that could be taken up by me), you give this blog content to be realized (you fucking wasted my only good paragraph, you whore).
It's fall and it's about 63. Perfect weather for outdoorsy coat-wearing Starbloggers like myself. This guy sitting beside me is clearly bothered that I haven't removed my jacket yet. "Hey buddy," I begin, but then my barista Janet summons me for my Pumpkin Latte con Leche (I'm in SoCal). Janet's lattes are—quite inaccurately—so much better than the other coffee machine-abusing workerbees' cheap overpriced concoctions. Janet will read this post. Janet makes coffee in her sleep; she is that good at it, and has somnambulism that developed.
Holy fuck my Discord server is empty as fuck. Dave is literally fist-fighting with the bot. This could get ugly; I'm gonna go investigate.
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