Once upon a time, I thought I was past this. I was done, never to return. A symbol of my teenage past. Heirlooms, like all the bullshit in my room back home from high school, on a shelf gathering dust. Revisit when I'm 40 and in the midst of a nasty mid life crisis.
I'm back again for some reason.
Typing stuff that's nonsensical.
Annoyed at the priorities at hand. Running from the truth. That sort of thing. Again.
Whatever.
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