Stuck in perpetual spinning doors with pulverised controls. Here's a fancy metaphor for how great your fucking life's becoming now. You are the fashion star. You are the fashion star. Walk around the catwalk and breathe in the failure. It will come. The ride's too high to fix and the doors keep on spinning. I'm disillusioned but at least I've got popcorn at the ready. 68% is good enough.
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