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I am not a salesperson. This is felt most prominently when I have to go through obligatory courses and tiny pieces of my soul shrivel up with passive aggression to die as hope, joy and dignity evaporate out of them…
fsk … slp … umph … wsp … grb … wsd
Cannot recall anything before the burn of all turf-burnings’ end of a swan-dive at the bottom of a ski jumping slope. From there I staggered into my brother’s flat. In his livingroom, drinking tea and sitting like an English Lady, was Benedict Cumberbatch. He was curiously interested in my descritive stories about orienteering, and why I have a growing contempt for my job.
Then I was Hermionie Granger (book version - most notable by the impressively messy hair), following Crookshanks around in a small wood with more paths than trees. In the middle was a small cottage with a large, angry fellow who was borderline aggressive to the point he oozed a great wish ti kick Crookshanks through every wall in the building. He implied that the cat had bad intentions and needed to get away. So I concluded that this man was vile and evil. With my cat held tightly to my chest I pretended to leave. I hid beind a pine until dark, then snuck back inside, still clutching Crookshanks. Nothing much happened except I had to use the bathroom. As I was done peeing I look to my right and discover a couple on a fancy dinner date now watching me completely bemused. I didn’t know how else to react than with humble gratitude that they let me finish without advertising their presence.
There is something wrong with the dudes in my family… My brother believes the biggest feline in South America is the ocelot. And my dad is convinced the cave bear was the cavemen era’s lion.
Couldn’t sleep because I was trying to say things with teeth things with teeth things with teeth things with teeth
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