Princess Hitler gazed from the viewing platform across the vast unmapped vastness of space and admired the good work that was being done on the new Death Star. The twin shiny brown chollahs of her hairdo glistened under the buzzy blue lights. A door went swoosh and in walked her lover Han Stalin. ‘Hi, sweetcakes.’ he said. She raised a hand as the phone rang. Princess Hitler imperiously raised the telephone to her ear. She banged her tongue off the roof of her mouth and made the clack-clack-clack of her people’s language to say the earthword ‘Hello’. It was her secret brother Luke Churchill on the phone. ‘What do you want Luke?’ she said. ‘I want you to stop building that confounded Death Star contraption’ he said. ‘Never!’ she said, imperiously. ‘If our father was alive, and if we knew who he was, he would be ashamed of you.’ he said, meaningfully. ‘Don’t be so sure, fucko!’ she said enigmatically. She slammed down the phone with aplomb. ‘Trouble, princess?’ asked the ruggedly handsome Han Stalin, as he sidled over to his bitch. He put his hands on her hot tits and she kissed him. ‘I want you to fuck me in the ass.’ She said sexily. ‘I will do as you request.’ he said, ‘As soon as I find that Darth Gandhi muthafucker and fuck him up two times. Then I will fuck your ass but good.’ Princess Hitler smiled to herself and sighed, remembering good times before she was evil.
Meanwhile on the desert planet of Dantooine C3TraciLords and R2BustaRhymes were wandering about in the desert. ‘Why are we walking around this big desert?’ said C3TraciLords ‘Preeeep Burrrr Buzzzz Bzz Click Preeep Parp brrrrr brrrroT!’ said R2BustaRhymes. ‘Okay. Now I’m gonna fuck you in the ass.’ said C3TraciLords, and she did.
Meanwhile on a massive Imperial Death Battle Cruiser dark lord Darth Gandhi rubbed his huge brass penis and stared at the decaying shell that had been the body of Jabba the Hirohito. ‘That double-crossing bastich got what was coming to him.’ said Darth Gandhi laughing nastily. He put his cock away and shouted an order to his mighty army of stormtroopers. They were wearing the new Apple floral armor that was taking the Imperial deathsquad fashion world by storm. They all smelt really good, too. Because they were wearing aftershave. They smelt so good they threw off all their armour and bummed each other real good. They all slurped up loads of cum. Then they put on their armour again and were even greater warriors, like the Greeks. ‘Boys!’ said Darth Gandhi ‘We’re gonna go and kick that bitch Princess Hitlers ass!’. Everyone cheered and then they drove over to Princess Hitler’s place.
Meanwhile in the Millennium Falcon Chewbogart was fixing something. His big fat hairy cock kept getting jammed in machinery. He growled with pleasure. Han Stalin sidled up behind him and grabbed him by his hairy ass. Chewbogart growled with pleasure. Han crammed Chewbogart’s great hairy cock into his mouth and sucked and rubbed him until he spewed his wookie-juice down his throat. It tasted good. Han licked his lips. Chewbogart growled with pleasure. Just then Princess Hitler walked in. ‘What the fuck?’ said Princess Hitler. ‘Listen, baby’ said Han Stalin ‘don’t be buggin’. I lubs you. Coz you bees my woman. I jus digs on some wookie dick now an agin.’ Princess Hitler nodded wisely as she smiled and remembered old times. Chewbogart growled with pleasure then they all fucked.
Just then Luke Churchill arrived on his jetbike. At the same time Darth Gandhi arrived with his stormtroopers. Everybody was standing in a big grey steel room with some boxes lying around for cover and outer space and the millennium falcon in the background.
Luke Churchill had a lightsabre, a blue one, pointed at Princess Hitler’s throat. Princess Hitler had a cool blaster rifle pointed at Darth Gandhi’s guts. Dath Gandhi had a red light sabre pointed at Han Stalin’s nuts. The stormtroopers had their millions of blasters pointed at Princess Hitler and Han Stalin and Luke Churchill, but it was no good because Chewbogart had them all covered with his crossbow. ‘This is a tricky situation.’ said Darth Gandhi. ‘Indeed.’ said Princess Hitler. ‘I will kill you all’ said Luke Churchill. ‘Shut up, son’ said Darth Gandhi. Everybody’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s quite the revelation’, said Han Stalin ‘I believe there will be much killing this day.’ They all nodded wisely. ‘But first’ said Darth Gandhi ‘let the fucking begin!’ and everybody fucked everybody else. When the fucking was over they all picked up their weapons and resumed their positions. Before the fighting could begin a shadowy figure floated down from the ceiling landing like a feather. As insubstantial as a shadow. The figure danced a dance of death across the room. Blood sprayed from arteries and there were heads and limbs everywhere. Soon everyone was dead except for the mystery stranger. This magic ninja removed her mask. It was Dame Vera Lynn. She sang her wartime favourite ‘There’ll Be Bluebirds Over The White Cliffs Of Dover’ while she nailed a twitching stormtrooper corpse with her strap-on.
posted
Return From Down And Out In Paris And London by George Orwell
"Master Orwell, Sir? Master Orwell, I've brought your eggs and toast, Sir, and your newspaper, Sir."
It was my butler, Wilson, two minutes late with my breakfasting things. I made a note to dock him a day's pay and reduce his shoe cleaning allowance to 1d a year, then spent two hours soaking in a hot bath. God, the stench of those godforsaken tramps, would it never leave me? Still, I'd managed to flog a good few copies of the book, once I'd stuck in some French swear words to make the ladies' nipples stand on end in guilty delight.
I say, what's this in The Times? Some sort of civil trouble in Spain, eh? Might be able to squeeze a bit more cash out of this one and catch some rays at the same time. Now, which side shall I go and "fight" for?
"Wilson? Wilson! Flick a coin would you, there's a good fellow. Heads, I join the jolly old Fascists... oh, it's tails. Well, you can't win them all, what?"
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Louche
Carved TMO on her clit just to make you feel bad
posted
As ever, when I woke, he was already up, standing there against the sunrise, silhouetted, keeping a vigil. I lifted my head off the stony floor of the Romanian barn and looked at him; an outline, a shadow against the sun
The hat, the crossbow, the long coat. That was the way I always remembered him, a silhouette. Come to think of it, it’s hard to think of him any other way. There was one time – actually there were many times – when I saw him making an impossible leap from a bridge to a cable and his limbs took on a jerky, unhuman quality and his skintones suddenly went all plasticky, and the physics of the whole thing didn’t seem quite right. But when he landed, he was there, ready with a quip and a glower from his suede hat.
“Couldn’t sleep again Van Helsing?” I asked.
He dipped his head against the sunrise and turned his head slightly towards me “I can never sleep anymore.”
He was a tortured man. I could see that. Tortured by a past he couldn’t remember – and a past Dracula wouldn’t let him forget. Although; I had been genuinely tortured myself once – a mad doctor had wired my genitals up to a steam powered generator in a bid to create a race of genitically superior flying ball-men. Sparks flew and my testes frazzled, and I screamed and screamed. I don’t milk it as much as Van Helsing does. And to be honest, his torture looks easier than my torture. At least he gets to see the sunrise. All I saw in that dungeon was my own bollocks bubbling and bust in a smouldering fountain of blood and toasted spunk. Anyway. Van Helsing: A tortured man.
He was speaking again; speaking about Anna.
“I can’t believe he took Anna from us,” he mumured.
“Ac-Actually, it was you who killed Anna,” I reminded him. I know how his memory is, sometimes.
“That fiend, though, it was his fault.”
“No… no, as I recall he was dead by that point. He’d…”
Without another word the big V exited the barn. We’d been travelling for some time, tracking a new threat. A new enemy. The Vatican had yet to come up with a snappy title for it. Not a vampire, not a werewolf. This was simply a creature. Early sightings had originated from a lagoon, that was dark in appearance. A creature. From a dark in appearance lagoon. We would need to do some work on that one if we were looking to get it canonised in local folklore. So far we had no idea how we would kill this beast from the dark waters, but along the way I had uncovered a piece of a scroll. Written in Latin, it translated roughly as “Crossbow bolt between the eyes”. There was a picture on the scroll, that looked like some kind of ox bow lake or something. I pondered to myself, ‘how would this piece fit into the final puzzle’.
Suddenly, there was a terrible screeching, the most terrifying sound I’d ever heard, enough to send any sane man scurrying for safety. I ran outside to see what it was, and some sort of half woman/banshee thing was screeching down towards Van Helsing.
“Prepare to die!” it hollered, and then sort of hung in the air for a bit as though it had become distracted by another train of thought. Maybe it was thinking about spoons or something; I don’t know.
Using this moment, Van Helsing did a commando roll across the floor and through some shit and came up firing. Crossbow bolts swizzled through the air and bought the creature crashing to the ground.
Van Helsing stood over the body, “That was a bolt from the blue,” he quipped lamely, and then went back to being tortured by his past. I looked at the dead creature.
“This is one of Dracula’s brides,” I said, recognising the harpy by her large hoop earrings, and blue Adidas tracksuit bottoms. “They must want this creature for themselves! They must want to use this creature to bring Dracula back to life!”
“How would that work that’s ridiculous Dracula doesn’t have anything to do with this creature.”
“Of course!” I yelped, “The lake where the creature first emerged! Dracula went swimming in there when he was a boy! He must have done a wee in there! Dracula wee! That’s why the lake went black! This creature must be made of Dracula wee! That’s how they can bring him back!”
“Then we’ve no time to lose!” said Van Helsing and ran off.
A few days later we came to another lake, stained black by the creature’s presence (he stains all water black when he goes in the water, like a dirty, dirty child).
“Looks like we’re too late!” said Van Helsing, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder. “There’s nothing here. All is calm. Damn. The creature is definitely not here now.”
All of a sudden the cretaure burst out of the water and lunged at Van Helsing. There bwas a cable hanging down from the sky and he grabbed onto it and swung around for a bit firing off rounds from his gas powered crossbow. Bolts stuck in the creature’s torso, his arms and his legs, but the creature wouldn’t drop. Van Helsing let go of the rope and kept firing, loosing off bolt after bolt after bolt, but to no avail. Eventually he was down to the last crossbow bolt. If this one didn’t kill him, we would be really fucked.
Then! I remembered something!
“Try weeing on him!” I yelled, “He’s made of wee! Your wee may counteract the Dracula wee!”
So Van Helsing stood and weed on the monster, but it didn’t work. The monster only grew bigger.
“Wait!” I shouted again, remembering the scroll. “Try shooting him in the head” So Van Helsing made a heroic dive for the crossbow and fired a bolt straight into the monster’s brain, killing it instantly.
“Wait!” he shouted, “Maybe we could use this monster to bring back Anna!”
“That doesn’t make a jot of sense. It was only going to bring back Dracula because it was his wee. It wasn’t Anna’s wee.”
“No – I’ve just remembered that when I was I child, I went swimming in that same lagoon… with Anna… and with Dracula and he made us all play a special wee game. Each of us has some wee in this monster Later I stole Anna off Dracula, when we were playing kiss chase. That’s why he’s always hated me. And we wouldn’t let him play the bad touch game.”
“That’s… horrible. And it makes even less sense.”
“We’ve no time to lose!”
A few days later, we prepared a special ceremony and brought Anna back to life.
“Gabriel,” she said, “I love you – but I smell of wee.”
“That doesn’t matter,” he replied, “ I still love you.”
She leant in to kiss him, but he pulled away.
“Ac-actually, it does matter. It’s a bit overpowering.” He hung his head in tortured shame, “I’m sorry Anna… my allegiance is to vanquish evil.” With that, and a swish of his cape, he disappeared into the night (it was night).
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posted
lolletta, but I think you may have given away some features of the original to those of us who have yet to see it.
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posted
I'm suprised more people haven't contributed; it's probably the easiest 'creative writing' thread there's ever been on TMO, unlike - say - TMO Murder where the stakes were pretty high. At least here any lazy/ clumsy writing can be fobbed off as an attempt to ape the cruddy reality of genuine piss-poor fanfiction.
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A practical guide for decreasing communication and having arguments naked.
By Dr Pete ‘Petey’ Peters
Acknowledgments
I thank my first wife, Patricia, for sharing the journey of developing this guide with me. I thank her for allowing me to share our stories at minimum cost and especially for developing my understanding of the female point of view. Oxymoron that it is.
I thank our five daughters, Patricia, Lily, Pony, Emily, and Geoff, for their continued love and appreciation of Daddy’s moneypocket. Yes I did write five daughters, Geoff. The challenge of being a parent has allowed me to understand the struggles my parents had and to love them even more. Even though they didn’t have a homosexual in the home.
Finally, I thank the thousands who participated in my relationship with Patricia, shared their stories, and taunted me at work.
Introduction
A week after our third daughter Pony was born, my wife Patricia and I were completely exhausted. Patricia was traumatised from the birth and was taking anti-depressants. She could barely talk.
Two days after the birth she rang me at work and insisted I come home immediately. Pony had suckled her dry. When I returned she was very upset. One of her breasts hung under her arm like a sock.
I misinterpreted the cause of her distress and laughed aloud.
She said, "Just what is so funny Petey Peters?"
I said, "A joke I heard on the way home. On the radio."
She said, "Is that so. I sit here incapacitated, breastfeeding Pony…"
I said, "And how is daddy’s four-legged best girl?"
She said, "whizz"
Actually, that was the fruit knife by her bed, which went on to say "thunk" as it stuck through the meat of my thigh.
She said, "You always do this. You never think about my feelings."
I said, "What do you mean, always? When exactly do I do ‘this’."
She said, "I don’t know when exactly. I don’t keep a diary of the days."
At this point the bleeding from my leg had become profuse and I thought it wise to sit down. I was hobbling towards the edge of the bed when she said, "And don’t even think about bleeding on the bed."
I said, "If you cannot tell me when I have done ‘this’ before, whatever ‘this’ is, I can’t have been that insensitive. You’ve probably got the baby blues."
She said, "I have a deflated boob. You laughed when you walked through the door. This is not about the baby blues, it’s about you."
Then she sat forward and said, "And you’ve bled on the floor. Marvellous."
I said, "When am I insensitive? Give me an example."
She said, "When I moved your stereo because it ruined the Feng Shui and you left a glass of water in the money corner."
I said, "The stereo had been placed to give optimum playback quality. I was understandably upset because my listening conditions had been compromised. I did not leave the water near the piggybank on purpose."
She said, "Water washes away energy gathered by money. This is why we have no money."
I said, "Sorry, have I missed something? When am I insensitive?"
*****
A typical argument between a typical twosome, I’m sure you’ve had a hundred like them! For me, however, this was an epiphany. I realised that I had not known real love until this point.
Was I upset about the stereo? Sure, and Patricia had steadfastly refused to give a straight answer to the simplest of questions, but I was letting these cloud my vision of the whole, my awareness of the ‘us’.
Patricia, too, was upset.
She was tired and suffering from post-natal depression. Nine months since her last period and all those hormones were just busting a gut to get loose!
Too tired even to accept my offer of warm milk and a weekend shopping trip to the mall, Patricia had ‘reverted to type’. She had deconstructed her self and a century of emancipation and empowerment.
Violent, mentally lackadaisical, worried only about appearance, and unable to focus on a single issue - in this instance a perfectly straightforward question repeatedly asked – Patricia had devolved to the state of obsessive compulsive slut monkey.
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posted
I can't believe I missed this. You all deserve fucking medals - this has to be one of the best threads there's ever been on TMO. Christ, I just laughed so hard I thought my cock would burst.
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"It's no good, Ron. I can't do it." said Harry Potter. He turned, a beautiful scowl twisting his handsome adolescent face, making the scar on his lovely forehead stand out even more, like an angry red tree against the pink dusk of his lovely forehead, while his adolescent muscles knotted in frustration, and his adolescent foreskin withdrew from the angry, shiny red head, hidden in the darkness of his grey slacks, but red with anger and passion.
"Try again, Harry." Said Ron, his eager, open, stupid, willing face turned up to Harry's like a held-open arse being proffered to a bummer. He ran an amenable, simple hand through his beautiful copper locks. His triangular, strong but submissive chin, spotted with a light ginger down like a partially-stripped field of organic candy floss, was still wet and glistening with vaginal mucous.
"Try..." he whispered. Hermione's fist came down again in an arcing, powerful, vicious and yet gentle punch, opening up his beautiful but prone chin like a second red mouth that was full of blood, with a sound like a wet brown paper bag full of testicles being thrown out of a coach onto a hot embankment.
"You should have known that this was all part of my plan all along from the very beginning, Harrypotter", spat Voldemort. He threw off his cloak and began to dance. At first Harry thought he could handle the dance, but the more it went on the more he realised that the dance was so twisted that his brain was decaying inside his head. To see an old man throw off his cloak and do a weird, flowing dance, while whispering little satisfied sounds to himself, in time to each movement, is a really horrible sight, Harry knew. He looked away from the gyrating old man, and his giant quivering liquid but manly due to the massive arching masculine eyebrows above them eyes looked imploringly into Hermione's glaring eyes which were soullessly angry but underneath there was still a hint of her soft, pulpy, yielding, warm, damp femininity. Harry could practically smell her musk, its cloying scent like sweet, decaying fruit, clogging up his nostrils, making him gasp as his cock reached up, up and out. That was it, the spell broke.
"I love you Harry, and Ron." said Hermione, as she staggered backwards, her powerful blue eyes burrowing into Harry's mind, then she turned and ran at Voldemort really fast, who was in the middle of a complicated sashay, his head moving in a delicate and beautiful liquid movement, a gentle whispered 'Da da DA, da da DA-DA' escaping his puckered lips of evil. But Voldemort was really good at magic and he turned and fired a big blue bolt of fizzing energy which hit Hermione right on her perfect adolescent chest. She fell to the floor, but before she had fallen to the floor her body had changed; her beautiful, passionate, soulful eyes and her pouting, gasping mouth all shrank instantly to anuses, and her firm, high, delicate but firm adolescent buds, unclothed from where she had been on Ron, immediately swelled into giant cocks, which were erect and started spunking straight away, long gummy strands of warm salty sperm landing silently on the cold dusty stone floor. In her distress she tried to scream or look around, but she couldn't see because she had eye-anuses now (which her shaking fingers were now exploring, the perfectly manicured nails pressing gently against the delicate, soft anus skin) and the only sound she was able to make was a gentle rasping or buzzing sound from her tight, pursed mouth-anus.
"In a few hours there will be nothing left of her but a massive heap of warm sperm, and a little shrivelled body with cocks for tits and anuses for mouth, eyes" laughed Voldemort horribly. The laugh went straight down Harry's spine and into his soul, as he remembered Voldemort laughing that laugh when he gave a similar fate to Harry's mum, Enid. He summoned all his strength, closed his eyes...and TUGGED the chain free that was cuffed to his wrists, the chain that was attached to the ring that was pierced through Ron's helmet.
"Auuuagghhuhhhhhhhhhh", breathed Ron, his eyes closing in equal parts pain and pleasure as there was a gout of dark blood across his face and lips, his helmet split in two, never to be whole again, due to Harry's actions. He had never felt closer to Harry in his life.
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BLACK AND WHITE CU of a WOMAN lying on the floor, looking up. Her face is bloody. A hand belonging to the off-screen man’s voice ENTERS FRAME holding a white handkerchief with the name "JUDE" sewn in the corner, and begins tenderly wiping away the blood.
JUDE'S VOICE (O.S.) I bet I could fry an egg on your head about now, if I wanted to.
He continues wiping away the blood.
JUDE'S VOICE (O.S.) No kiddo, I'd like to believe, even now – your eyes look fantastic by the way, and you can match them to your Fendi using this dial behind your ear – even now – which is also fantastic. Your ear. It’s also fantastic. Hello. Hello! Even now you're aware enough to know there isn't a trace of materialism in my actions. This is me at my most giving.
The woman speaks for the first time. She looks up at the man standing over her and says:
SADIE Jude, I'm sorry. It’s just, I’m trying to reinvent as a boho and you’ve made me very glam.
After saying the "m" in "glam", we hear a BANG and Sadie gets a bullet to the side of her head.
CUT TO: BLACK SCREEN: Presentation Credit
"The 24th Film by NATURAL NYLON ENTERTAINMENT (the proper group of proper friends without Jude Law yeah Jude you twat)"
TITLE SEQUENCE “Fashion” by David Bowie plays on the soundtrack. The credits of "Kill Jude" play over shots of Sadie in hospital looking poorly.
WE FADE TO BLACK
BLACK FRAME TITLE APPEARS:
Chapter one: "2"
CUT TO: A Victorian house in North London. Pearl Lowe hand-dyed lace curtains hang in the window.
EX CU: A long, white female finger pushes the doorbell. The finger is heavily scarred. A MATTHEW WILLIAMSON label hangs from the nail.
The front door opens. A very thin woman stands in the doorway. A VENGEANCE THEME PLAYS ON THE SOUNDTRACK. When the vengeance theme stops, Sadie ATTACKS the thin woman.
INT. THIN WOMAN’S WHITE HOME - DAY The thin woman WALKS BACKWARDS into the centre of a huge white room. Sadie is preparing to speak. Suddenly a LITTLE BOY WEARING A LOST BOYS STYLE TEDDY BEAR SUIT steps inside.
LITTLE BOY Mommy, w-what’s that in Mommy and Daddy’s entrance space?
THIN WOMAN Um, I’m interviewing for a new cleaner darling. I had to sack the Croatian.
LITTLE BOY Ulrik?
THIN WOMAN Yes. He was sick in the sink. And he’s left a glass of vodka on the kitchen table space. And some Prozac whatever they are.
SADIE Hello.
LITTLE BOY *screams* Runs from room.
THIN WOMAN Sorry about that. But you do look awful. Vodka?
SADIE (crying) Please.
SADIE (V.O.) This London homemaker's name is Sienna Miller. Her husband is Judith Law. But back when we were acquainted, five years ago, her name was not important. Because I was more famous.
SADIE So how come you look alright?
SIENNA O God, you mean after you? I said if he touched my face I’d touch his. But my stomach’s a mess.
SADIE Who?
SIENNA Tom Ford for Gucci.
SADIE He did my legs.
Sadie lifts her skirt. Sienna pales.
SIENNA I love Jude, but what the hell was he thinking…
SADIE I believe he conflated the idea of cutting edge fashion with the literal cutting edge of plastic surgery. Believing his fashion icons to be simply incredible designers capable of doing to God’s plain work what they can do to cloth, he asked a range of leading designers and design houses to submit their ideas for the perfect woman. Then he took some night classes in biology and, with his good friend Dr Carter Tall, set about making his beloved designs real. You, of course, were the bait: Jude explained that you were younger and thinner and I understood that it must have been difficult for him to love my ancient 36 year old body. But of course I had the brains he adored.
SIENNA That's being more rational than Jude led me to believe you were capable of.
SADIE It's mercy, compassion, and forgiveness I lack, not rationality. O, and a single square centimetre of my body without a fucking label.
SIENNA Look... I know I’m wholly responsible for this. I wish to God I hadn't been born, but I was. If I could go back in a machine I would, but I can't. All I can tell you is I'm a different person now. I’m Kaballan!
SADIE Then you must come to Kate’s! Who makes these tumblers by the way?
SIENNA O! O! O! Aren’t they the cutest! They’re Wedgewood diffusion! Look at the label! John Torode has them at Smiths and I-
SADIE Omigod Sienna. Have you put on weight?
SIENNA No! No! Jude checked yesterday. I was weighed! Where? Where do you see the weight?
SADIE Forget it. Forget I said anything… maybe it’s just gravity.
SIENNA You bitch! You spiteful, spiteful bitch. Jude tried to make you better! He tried to make you beautiful like me! Donnatella Versace designed your arms for Gianni’s sake. And what do you say? You tell him you’re reinventing! True, the surgery didn’t work as planned, but you could have been huge on the London art scene. A new Leigh Bowery! Our Leigh Bowery! Labelia Bowery – fashion victor!
SADIE *stabs*
As Sadie is cleaning her knife, she notices the little boy watching her from the hall space.
SADIE It was not my intention to do this in front of you. For that I'm sorry. But you can take my word for it, your mother had it coming. When you grow up, if you still feel raw about it, I'll be waiting.
LITTLE BOY Fuck that. I’m only here for the summer season. Apparently I look fat in scarves.
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