“Gee, it sure would be a shame if you lost that streak now, wouldn’t it? It would be a crying shame and that’s why you should buy some lives.”
say “It takes a clear conscience to sleep in church?” How do you say “ain’t seen ya since God knows when” like God’s got the time to keep track of any of us anymore. Like he hasn’t given us up as a bad bet, like he isn’t sick of getting our little notifications, like he’s not bulk deleting our prayers. You’ll lose your streak if you don’t practice by midnight. Duo is disappointed in me. That rolls around in my head like a rock that I am trying to tumble into something smooth and shiny and inoffensive as a neighbor at my father’s wake tells me I smell like garlic. I adjust the medals on his military uniform. I take the flag of a country I’m mad at most of the time because the honor my father wanted is a burden I now have to store in my house. The fucking emojis. Your German skills are getting moldy with a round green face about to vomit. The Owl is sick. Sick at my choices. Sick at my limits. Disgusted, even. If it knows so much about what I’m capable of, why doesn’t it see how hard I’m trying?
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