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Now passing muted moaning sounds of niggas making out off as hippos having a heart attack is all fun and games (<<< Part 1) but to my mom's apartment credit this is a quiet neighborhood with trees everywhere (whose, what the PC cucks call "pollen," tree cum I am allergic to) like it be Bumfuck Nowhere, Oregon. The loudest sound around is the sound of me shitposting.
I would like to bring your attention to an alarming household epidemic plaguing every nation that is at the top of the list beating soccer mom alcoholism and soccer mom's son fentanyl fatal overdose and that horrible, horrible thing is "mysterious" disappearances of small items, whether it be your underwear, glasses, socks you name it.
House niggas automatically dis-qualified from being infuriated by this "mysterious phenomenon" because your dwelling quarters are motherfucking yuge and when anything gets lost in your place you is aware it is gone forever. A lost cause, like the earth apocalyptically opened for a split second and swallowed it whole, made its way to Australia, and Mel Gibson is wearing it right now which is why you go buy a new one when that happens.
What is mind-boggling is when finding small items feels like part-hidden camera prank and part-scooby doo mystery episode especially when we is talking about an apartment, not a house. I retraced me steps and searched everywhere in my (my mom's) tiny mouse-ass apartment for the thing I can't find and I ain't sure the scooby doo gang could bust this mystery motherfucker where my idiot ass (villain of the week) left it lul.
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